


Timeless in the Realm of Time

by SirenFeather



Series: Time and Feathers [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Blood, Canon Compliant, Corpses, Drinking, Dubcon Cuddling, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Getting Together, God Is A Black Woman, Heat Stroke, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Its very brief but just to be safe, M/M, Miscommunication, Near Death Experiences, No beta we fall like Crowley, Non-COVID related illness, Other, Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sickfic, Sleep, Sleepy Crowley (Good Omens), Sleepy Cuddles, The Fall (Good Omens), glitched text
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:48:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 31,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22984303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirenFeather/pseuds/SirenFeather
Summary: At the Ritz, an angel and a demon were preparing to leave. Aziraphale eyed Crowley. “Ready?”“Yeah, let’s go."Crowley got up from his seat and collapsed on the floor. Not surprising, really. He was downright sloshed. Absolutely plastered. It’s what you did in the 70’s.“Crowley, you need to wake up!”Crowley groaned. “Five more minutes. No, make dat ten. Feels nice.”Abruptly, he felt himself being lifted off the ground. He was weightless—floaty standing on his burned feet that were now going numb. He drove the angel home through the Blitz. Queen was singing from his cassette player as the digital clock flickered. Aziraphale clutched his bag.“Don’t worry, dear. I’ll take care of you.”--Crowley finds out stopping time had more repercussions than he bargained for.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Time and Feathers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2021588
Comments: 54
Kudos: 130





	1. Chapter 1

_London  
21 August 2019_

If there was ever a moment Crowley wished could last forever, wished the pendulum would stop its arching movement, the Earth would pause in its orbit, and the tick of his watch would come to a standstill, it was now, here with his angel as they celebrated all the time they had in the world.

In a way, freezing time wasn’t necessary. They could have as many dinner dates and nights at the theatre as they liked now. The shadow of their former bosses no longer loomed over them. Freedom was theirs to do whatever the Hel- Hea- Earth they wanted. The angel and demon weren’t so much living on borrowed time than time they wrenched from God’s _ineffable_ hands and ran off with.

It was just that Crowley couldn’t get enough of Aziraphale. This newfound freedom was a good look on the angel. His eyes shined with unrestrained joy as they lingered on the demon without shying away. He _hmmed_ , gasped and tittered over the smallest of delights. His posture was more relaxed as he leaned toward Crowley.

He called him _my dear_.

If it were any other normal day, Crowley would watch all this wearing his well practiced frown with the sort of attention a snake gave at the sight of a tasty meal. Today was far from a normal day.

There was an energy sparking between them. The rush of freedom, the triumph from outwitting their head offices, and the promise of continued days for Earth and humanity—the thrill of it all, that they actually managed to subvert Heaven and Hell to save the world, was infectious. The passion and obvious joy emanating from the angel as he chatted on poured into Crowley.

So Crowely could forgive himself this one time if he let his demonic attitude slip a bit. He gave himself some room to breathe. Draped in his chair with limbs stretched in every direction, he let himself show a small smile as he enjoyed Aziraphale’s endless stories.

He deserved this much. This was not just a reward for stopping Armageddon, but for managing to make it here with the angel happily by his side. 

Love was a funny thing. Many humans, while they are young and inexperienced, think being in love is a singular emotion. The feeling continues on and on, a passion that stays constant, forever and ever and ever, ect.

Nah, that’s a bunch of rubbish. Take it from a demon. Love, it evolves.

6,000 years ago, when his love was new and embarrassingly close to the level of a Beatles fangirl, he could only dream of being where he is now. Back then, he was so curious and that drew him to Aziraphale. He craved every moment he could get with the angel. The yearning he felt was all-consuming. 

If you told him 2,000 years ago where he was now, he would hardly believe it. It was a difficult part of his life. When he realized Aziraphale would never reciprocate his feelings—that angels _love_ every living thing but don’t _love love_ anyone—it felt like falling again. He knew then the demon was cursed to never be loved by the ones he loved most.

He spent those years mostly screaming at God and getting as drunk as he could. His love felt like a punishment. It ate away at him.

And then Aziraphale invited him for oysters. He even seemed to _enjoy_ the demon’s presence. That day, Crowley accepted that he would never stop loving Aziraphale. Which meant loving an angel knowing he would receive no love in return, or at least no more than the companionable, angelic sort.

From there on, his pining tampered down. Still there in some manner, but more focused. He was methodic in every choice he made. A dinner here, an outing there. He crafted The Arrangement, slowly working himself more and more into Aziraphale’s life.

All the while he kept himself in check. Never took more than the angel could give. It was like training a young apple tree. Ropes kept him tied back, not letting his desire push him to do something stupid. Once he was in more control, he let down the ropes one by one. Until one day, his heart had grown into a mature apple tree.

In the present, when he admired the angel, the love he felt was akin to sitting by a fireplace. It was so warm, safely contained within brick and iron where it could never threaten to burn it all down. Love felt like an integral part of his being, as much a part of his nature as being a snake. His heart basked in this comfort, always satisfied with the moment and never demanding more.

No, this was enough. More than enough. An eternity of no Heaven or Hell to deal with while humans continued to be clever and make all the books and cuisine Aziraphale loved was all he could ever hope for.

This was more than Crowley ever deserved. He wouldn’t dare ask for more. He learned that lesson long ago. He could never push for more than Aziraphale clearly wanted. And Crowley would only ever give what his angel wanted.

“Oi,” Crowley called out to their waiter from across the room. “Grab us another bottle, wouldja?”

“Crowley! That is incredibly rude.”

“Well I would hope so.” Crowley cocked his head back as he let the last of his drink roll down his throat.

“It wouldn’t kill you to have more manners. It’s not like anyone is keeping track of us anymore.”

Crowley’s lips pressed into a line as their waiter returned with a second bottle. Crowley didn’t break eye contact with Aziraphale. Not when their champagne flutes were refilled. And not when he sarcastically drawled, “Thaaaank you for the champaaaagne.”

“Not at all, sir.”

The demon smirked at the miffed expression the angel shot him. Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed the way they always did when he knew Crowley was trying to get under his skin. His brows furrowed and he straightened his back just so.

Crowley savored the reactions he drew from the angel. He had every one catalogued, thousands of years of seeing every flavor of Aziraphale. He has witnessed them all enough times to memorize every detail, and yet he never tired of seeing them again and again.

But then the corners of Aziraphale’s lips quirked upwards and Crowley stopped breathing. The angel didn’t say anything, just stole a few glances before turning back to his food.

Crowley’s hand shot across the table, nearly knocking over his drink. He chugged down the alcohol in large gulps. That was new. Wasn’t prepared for that. Since when did the angel look at him _fondly_ as he was intentionally being an arse?

His heart didn’t beat nearly this hard when Satan was erupting out of the Earth for an unwelcome family reunion.

Aziraphale tapped a napkin to his lips. “I don’t suppose you have any plans after this.”

Crowley grappled with the change of topic before babbling, “Nope. No- Naaah. Evening’s completely free. Nothing booked. I’m open for- er, my _schedule’s_ open for… whatever.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I meant more in the long-term, but that is good to hear. Perhaps we could continue this celebration at the bookshop. I have a bottle of— Oh! But you probably want to return to your Bentley.”

“It’s fine, angel. The car’s not going anywhere. I’ll grab it another time.”

“Oh, but are you sure? I don’t want to keep you from— that is to say, we should spend this time enjoying the Earthly things we nearly lost. After all this excitement, I’m afraid settling down at my place would feel rather dull.”

“I think I could use a little dull right now.”

It was true. As much as the demon loved racing through London, plotting devilish schemes and covertly meeting with his celestial adversary, his scheming tank was running on empty. He was drained. All his diabolic energy went into killing a work colleague, trapping another colleague in his answering machine, discovering his best friend and reason for living burned in what he thought was hellfire, getting hammered, finding out his friend wasn’t dead, keeping the Bentley together through sheer force of will through a wall of flames, facing Satan, stopping time somehow, and switching bodies with his best friend to trick Above and Below into backing the fuck off.

If it weren’t for no longer being on speaking terms with Hell, he’d be demanding double time on his wages.

At Crowley’s words, Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled, _literally_ sparkled, as he gave a shy grin. “Oh—well, wonderful! If that’s the case, you are more than welcome, my dear boy. In fact, there may be enough time for a walk to your car first before it gets dark. You can drive us over. Get reacquainted with your Bentley, as it were.”

“How late is it?” Crowley looked at his watch. It read 34:68 and the numbers were jittering about at random. He glowered, smacking the thing. Here his watch could tell him what time it was anywhere in the world—even if he were standing at the bottom of the ocean—yet it couldn’t handle being in a timeless realm for a single not-minute. Bloody thing was likely having an existential crisis.

“Oh, it shouldn’t be too late. It doesn’t look like they’ve pulled out the dinner menus yet. So, does that sound good to you?”

“Yeah. Sure, angel. Whatever you like,” Crowley said, suppressing a yawn. 

Honestly, what he really needed was a good, long nap. Falling face first into his favorite couch sounded more appealing than taking a walk. But Aziraphale knew him well, well enough to know how much Crowley missed his car. Even if a walk sounded tiring, it would be worth it to see his old girl again.

“Right,” Aziraphale said as he bundled up his napkin. “Best we take dessert to go.” As the waiter walked by, he tried to grab his attention through eye contact, opening his mouth to speak. But the waiter was distracted, missing the cue. As he walked past their table, Crowley grinned at the appalled look on the angel’s face.

Crowley leaned forward, nefariously said, “You know, angel, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little rude. Not like Upstairs is keeping score.”

“Oh, your influence on me is downright diabolical.” Despite his protests, he twisted around in his seat. “Excuse me,” he called out and winced at his own boldness.

Once their final order was made, the bill paid, and takeout boxes promising a sweet future for a very delighted angel arrived, Aziraphale eyed Crowley. “Ready?”

“Yeah, let’s go.” His chair scraped the floor as they took their leave.

* * *

_London  
24 November 1974_

“Crowley!”

“Wha?!”

Crowley was at a loss. He had no idea why Aziraphale was looking at him like, like he used the Lord’s name in vain or spilled his drink on an incunable—which were both equally sinful in Aziraphale’s book. The open-mouthed look of horror he earned from the angel was completely uncalled for.

Aziraphale leaned forward, darting his eyes around the bar as though not to be overheard. “Are you telling me you _bought_ a Betamacks?”

“Yeah, and? D’you know how much pir- priva- stealing humans can do wid onav those? I dun’ get whatsa big deal? And is ‘ _betamax_ ’, not… whatevr y’said.”

Crowley wobbled in his stool and sipped his whiskey. He couldn’t see where Aziraphale was going with this, which was admittedly normal when he got this drunk. One minute he was inviting the angel to watch Eurovision with him then—boom—pointless topic derailment.

“Betamax… betamax…” Aziraphale practiced the word under his breath as he swirled his wine. With a physical flinch, he snapped back into his previous thought. “Oh, you really shouldn’t have done that. Not that you would have known, of course. I just wish you would have consulted me first.”

“Hey.” Crowley stood, leaning over the angel to be as intimidating as possible even if he staggered a bit. With an accusing finger pointed at the angel, he growled, “No one tellsss me howda ssspend my infurnac- infernal wagesss!” To solidify his point, he promptly collapsed onto the floor.

“Oh dear!”

Crowley felt a little delirious but in a soothing way. The corner of his cheek tugged into a smile. Aziraphale wouldn’t challenge his point now that he was distracted. He effectively won the argument. One point for the demon.

“Sober up, Crowley. You’re drawing attention.”

“Nah,” the demon stubbornly replied. He could distantly hear other voices, cloaked in concern, coming closer as Aziraphale tried to fend them off.

“No need to worry. My friend just had too many drinks.”

Crowley frowned. Since when did Aziraphale call him a friend out loud?

“Crowley, you need to wake up!”

Crowley groaned. “Five more minutes. No, make dat ten. Feels nice.”

He heard a huff. “Now really!”

Crowley caught the sound of scuffling and voices but paid them no mind. He was starting to think this whole outing had been a terrible idea. Leave it to Aziraphale to pick some lavish pub that had more gaudy decor than alcohol selection. And what kind of self-respecting alcohol establishment plays piano music?

At some point, Crowley heard Aziraphale’s voice near his ear. “Do you plan to spend the rest of the evening sprawled out on the floor like that?”

Without opening his eyes, he replied, “Why don’t you join me? The floor is only slightly sticky.”

Aziraphale tutted. Abruptly, he felt himself being lifted off the ground. It was done so quickly and fluidly, the demon was almost more surprised by the ease of the movement than being off the ground.

The angel carried him out of the pub. He should have been embarrassed. A proper demon would rather fight for their dignity than be disgraced like this. She had disgraced him enough the first time. No need for seconds.

But Crowley had no fight in him. Nor the energy for at least a small grumble. It was easier to let his body go listless. His head rested against cotton, velvet and the soft body underneath. A door opened and a cold breeze danced over his skin. He turned closer to the warmth that held him.

“Don’t worry, dear. I’ll take care of you.”

Crowley released a satisfied sigh and let himself be carried away. Maybe this outing wasn’t that bad of an idea after all.

* * *

_London  
17 January 1941_

Crowley leaned into the Bentley and honked his horn. That got the angel’s attention. He practically flew off the ground at the noise, still clutching his bag.

“Any day now!”

Aziraphale finally scuttled through the ruins of the church, making his way to the Bentley. 

Crowley leaned on his car, trying to look at ease. His feet should be killing him. Instead, they had reached the point where he couldn’t much feel them anymore. The numbness made him feel weightless, as though there was no ground beneath his feet. It was going to take some willpower not to ruin his rescue mission by getting them both discorporated in a car wreck.

Aziraphale kept giving him quick, darting glances. Crowley swallowed despite his dry throat. They didn’t part on the best of terms nearly a century ago. He really didn’t want another row about it. He’d rather pretend the whole thing never happened.

“After you.” Crowley held the passenger door open for Aziraphale to settle inside.

As he took to the wheel, Aziraphale marveled at the car’s modern interior, running a hand over the leather seats. “This is quite the locomotive.”

“Only you would call a luxury car a locomotive. This here’s a Bentley. State-of-the-art. Best car on the market. Got her about a decade ago. Still practically new.”

“It’s a lovely car. Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed when he hit the gas. “It’s, umm, quite fast. Very… efficient. Can it go at slower speeds?”

“It can,” he replied in a smug tone. His foot didn’t ease off the gas.

“Right. Well.”

Aziraphale tore his eyes off the road lest he witness the city flying past them. He turned his attention to his bag of precious books. Crowley watched as he laid the bag gently on the seat between them, adjusting its handles with care. Unsatisfied, he lifted it back into his lap. His thumb slowly soothed the worn leather.

“There you are,” he whispered.

“I’ve seen mothers give their babies less affection than you give your books.”

“Oh hush.”

Crowley held back a chuckle, leaning back into his seat. To save them from awkward silence, he flipped on his cassette player. His lips sagged into a frown hearing Freddie Mercury’s voice drift through the car.

“Forgot that was in there. Doubt you’d like it.” He tried to smack the machine off. All he managed was to turn on the A/C and make the digital clock flicker.

“It’s no-,” _~Oooh love~_ “Oh. That, well. It’s quite alright.” Aziraphale fidgeted in his seat. His fingers were tracing the timeworn wrinkles in the bag. Crowley shivered. He kept his eyes fixed on the road, feeling his heartbeat grow faster than it should.

“We’re almost there,” Aziraphale muttered. Crowley couldn’t tell if he was still talking to his books or assuring himself the car ride would end soon.

Crowley urged the Bentley to drive a bit faster. He wanted to escape the uncomfortable atmosphere and the chill it brought with it.

The car came to a stop, one wheel still on the curb. He leaned toward Aziraphale. The angel’s lips were moving with silent words he couldn’t make out. His hold on the bag tightened.

“Here we are,” Crowley announced. “Off you go.”

“I will see you again soon, I hope.”

His eyes were so hopeful, the words heavy like he had been practicing them for a while. Crowley’s brain stuttered, then his mouth stuttered before he finally blurted out, “Ye- yeah. Yeah, of course. Sure. We’ll go… eat something. For lunch.”

Aziraphale grinned, and, oh, his hand was on his arm. It was only for an instant. Aziraphale likely didn’t think much of it. For Crowley, it felt like he watched the birth of a new galaxy within that short moment.

Aziraphale cradled his bag with great care as he exited the Bentley. Crowley didn’t move. He watched as Aziraphale crossed the road—the shop bell rang and the door closed behind him. It wasn’t until the lights shined from the bookshop windows that Crowley allowed his body to relax.

He reclined back. Despite having fixed seats, the Bentley altered itself so Crowley could lounge back further. He focused on the warm spot on his arm. Despite the chill in the air, he could still feel the imprint there, as though Aziraphale was still holding on to him.

He laid there, not moving or thinking. Through half-closed eyes he watched the time ascend on the clock. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 o’clock.

“Right, time to go. Got a lunch to plan.”

The Bentley pulled off the curb and sped away.

* * *

_London  
December 1801_

The past half hour was probably the noisiest the bookshop had ever been since its opening over a year ago.

“Give up, yet?” Crowley cheerfully asked.

Aziraphale was on top of a ladder where the open front door let in the frosty wind outside. Across the top of the ladder was a rolling toolset that was likely a relic from the 15th century. The sound of a bell ringing and ringing and ringing filled the bookshop like five handbell players performing Carol of the Bells asynchronously. 

Aziraphale grumbled. “It’s alright. Everything’s going to be just fine. It _should_ work this time. Just one more screw and—oh bugger!”

Said screw fell to the ground with a faint clatter. Crowley returned it to the angel and moved back to his post where he half-held the ladder still and half-feigned aloofness while fighting not to tremble from the icy, winter air.

“This seems more work than it's worth, honestly.”

“Like you know anything about honesty. You’re a demon,” Aziraphale said. 

It stung, if he were perfectly honest. Which apparently he wasn’t. By now the pain from these little remarks had dulled. Each time skin was damaged, it grew back stronger. The flesh around Crowley’s heart was so thick now it would take a major blow just to draw blood. His heart was no different than Aziraphale’s ladder, a stepping stone for the angel’s use to bring himself higher. Just how Crowley wanted it to be.

Over the frustrated shrieks of jingling bells, the angel continued, “This is a necessary measure. I have grown quite tired of humans sneaking up on me all the time.”

“What you call ‘sneaking up on you’ humans would call ‘shopping’. You do realize you own a bookshop, don’t you?”

“Don’t be dim. Did you come here to make scurrilous remarks all day or are you here to help?”

“I _came_ here to invite you to a Thursday jaunt to Cornwall.”

“Cornwall?” Azirphale frowned, but by the short over-the-shoulder glance Crowley knew he had captured the angel’s curiosity. “That’s a bit out of the way. What’s there to do in Cornwall?”

“There’s a man there, Richard something, says he’s invented a machine that can move people and stuff around _only_ using steam. Calls it a ‘steam locomotive’. And I have two tickets for the first ever demonstration.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “So it’s some sort of carriage, I take it?”

“Not a carriage,” Crowley sneered. “Carriages are pulled by bloody horses who bite your shoulders and drop a deuce in the middle of the road. No, locomotives have none of that. Doesn’t need anything pulling it. Just moves entirely on its own.”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale didn’t seem to be paying much attention, his focus on jangling the bells as much as possible while tightening a screw.

Over the noise, Crowley nearly shouted, “There’s also an inn there well known for their cornish pasties and cream tea.”

“You don’t say?” Aziraphale turned his full body away from his task to regard Crowley. His screwdriver fell to the floor. The angel didn’t notice.

Crowley forced a languid pose as a gust of wind chilled him to the bone. “How ‘bout it, angel? Up for a little day trip?”

Aziraphale held his lips tightly together, trying in vain to hide the smile growing on his face. “Well, I suppose I could witness this steam stagecoach for myself.”

With forced exasperation to hide his own desire to grin, he said, “ _Locomotive_ , angel. Steam locomotive. Only you would call it a steam stagecoach.”

* * *

_London  
January 1779_

In the reflection of an hourglass was the distorted image of a glowering demon.

The abandoned loft was a hollow crypt of its former self. A fine layer of dust settled like newly fallen snow. The winter air wailed through the chimney, spreading ash and charcoal across the room. There was no light. No life. The candles sat unused for over a year. All was left untouched.

He had fought to be back here, to be standing in this room. Stupid way to get discorporated. The past year was spent lying on every document under his pen. The story he wove for all of demonkind to hear was filled with cunning, devilish mischief and creative use of a paperclip. It certainly didn’t involve anything like horses, carriages, or trampling.

Crowley flared his nose, a sharp exhale turning into a rising fog. He stared as the sand fell in a steady stream. Just as he had left it. A ceaseless flow that would continue for eternity if allowed. If you were _patient_ enough.

Crowley seized the glass timepiece, his knuckles turning white with the strength of his grip. Two gold eyes stared back at him, stretched wide and deformed. Patient eyes watching, and watching. Waiting. Patience is a virtue, afterall.

He shouted.

The hourglass shattered on the floor. The glass and sand exploded into a starburst across the space, joining the dust and soot that claimed the loft as their home.

Without looking back, Crowley stormed out. His coat was left draped over a spotless chair, abandoned.

He would never return to this place again.

* * *

_London  
1709_

It was _fine_. Everything’s _fine_. More than fine. It was great. Marvelous. Cool—well. Warm. Practically toasty, all things considered.

It quite literally happened overnight. The evening before had been an ordinary January day. Humans went on with their day to day activities. The weather was cold, but a few extra layers and a warm fire was enough to stave off the worst of the chill. They kept going. Tradespeople went about their business. Housekeepers prepared warm meals while keeping the fire kindled. The children took delight in sleighs and snowfights.

The next morning, it all went downhill, as did the temperature. The whole of London was frozen. And no one was prepared.

First, the most vulnerable froze to death. Both livestock and the humans treated like livestock. 

Then, there was starvation. The food they stored for the winter was as solid as ice. Defrosting it all was mostly impossible. People were going through their firewood like Aziraphale goes through his books. Many resorted to burning their furniture just to get another few hours of warmth.

In a matter of days, the corpses piled up, frozen in the streets or huddled in their glacial homes. 

It’s not like a demon could go on holiday even during a natural disaster. No, for Crowley, it was business as usual. And if that business included starting fires where the homeless gathered, picking fights with the wolves edging into the village, or tempting a group of orphans to steal food from the well-off, it wasn’t anyone else's damn business.

Which led to Crowley being here, burnt-out and without enough occult juice to keep the fireplace going. He sat on the floor because he _wanted_ to. _Not_ because he toppled to the floor, thank you very much. He was wrapped in his bearskins, watching a bottle of merlot wine defrost in the glowing embers of a dying fire.

Yes, even alcohol froze in this weather. It was bloody aggravating.

Things weren’t all bad, though. Nah, he was feeling superb. Over the moon. Crowley’s mood was better than it had ever been since this awful frost had started. 

He felt _warm_ for one. His body no longer shivered. His spine was like liquid, melting as tension drained from his exhausted muscles.

It must be over, Crowley thought. Practically spring-like. Spring in August. Maybe by February he could find a sunny beach with some warm sand to burrow into.

“Crowley?”

_What?_

Not a foot away was Aziraphale, crouched on the floor, sky blue eyes observing him under furrowed brows. Crowley didn’t even hear him come in. Must of nodded off. Maybe he should hassle the angel, taunt him for breaking and entering the lair of a demon. Or were they going out for dinner today?

He should get up, but lifting his head was a bit difficult with his stiff neck. That’s why you don’t sleep on the floor. He could literally bite the dust from this position.

“Crowley! My Lord, you’re freezing cold!”

Aziraphale’s hands roamed his forehead, cheeks, hands—wherever there was some skin still showing. Crowley growled, but lacked enough breath to put any furosity into it. 

His hands bloody burned. After all these centuries, keeping himself from reaching out for the angel, the touch Aziraphale gave him hurt like hell. Crowley wished the angel would quit it with his holy, consecrated, filled with grace spiel. It was enough to give a demon a rash.

“Oh dear! How long have you been like this? No matter. I’ll have you right as rain in no time!”

At a snap of his fingers, fresh wood replaced the dying cinders, erupting into a roaring fire. Crowley heard the floorboards squeak with each of the angel’s footsteps. A moment later, the demon was being tucked in with duvets, quilts, and a puffy, tartan comforter.

“Wanna try and feel a pea through all this?” Crowley mumbled.

Aziraphale froze, metaphorically. He didn’t grace his question with an answer, the bastard. Rather, he stared at Crowley, his icy grey eyes widening. 

A sudden weight fell on him, making him sink into the ground. Hands cupped his face. Crowley felt his eyes flutter open, unaware they had closed at all.

“Stay with me!”

The angel’s voice was all distant and echoey—as though he went and got discorporated again. Stupid angel, like he would leave him. No Alpha Centauri for them. Not when his angel needed him here, on Earth. Of course he was staying. Obviously.

Two hands vigorously shook his shoulders. He groaned. _Just let me sleep, angel._

“No, no, no, no… Crowley? Come on! Stay with me! Oh no… oh no, I’m losing him…”

Aziraphale’s voice drifted into a whisper. Crowley sighed slowly. He felt so heavy. So heavy he could keep sinking… and sinking…

* * *

_Barbary Coast  
1666_

A strike to the chest knocked the wind out of her. 

She was gasping for air. Rigid hands grappled over her chest. Her fingers got tangled up in rope. She pulled the rope too tight. It squeezed the air out of her lungs worse than a corset.

“There you are!”

Crowley didn’t give any notice to the shaky voice. Panting, she frantically unwound the rope encircling her. Long strands of hair stuck to her face, covering her eyes. She was drenched. Her whole body sagged with the weight of her soaked clothing. She could still hear the steady beat of rain on the deck overhead.

Once she was free from the obnoxious rope, she leaned against the wall catching her breath. Even without the rope it was still difficult to breathe. Maybe her corset was too tight.

An unsteady huff reminded her she wasn’t alone. She looked up, expecting a member of her crew. Instead, a fussy angel stood in the doorway, wringing his quivering hands.

Crowley gawked at him as she pulled herself together. Aziraphale always looked good in tights. They peaked out from the hem of his breeches. Overlapping his bottoms was a cream-colored doublet with ornately stitched patterns as blue as forget-me-nots. What right did he have coming aboard looking so bloody gorgeous?

“Crowley…”

“What are you doing on my ship?”

“Your- your ship? What?”

Crowley sloshed over to him, making a wet squelch sound with each step. “Yeah, my ship.” She threw her arms out indicating the whole schooner they were standing in.

Aziraphale crinkled his nose. “Please don’t tell me this is a pirate ship.”

“I won’t tell you, then,” she replied, flashing her most devilish grin.

“Oh, good lord.” He pouted, a look of disapproval that didn’t reach his eyes.

“How did you get here, angel?”

“I—oh, I think you must be confused.” Aziraphale took a long breath, the kind that told Crowley immediately that she wasn’t going to get the chance to speak again for awhile.

“You brought me on your ship, remember? The circumstances were so dreadfully embarrassing. When I boarded La Vierge, I was told the ship was making a routine shipment. A perfectly safe voyage, they assured me. And, of course, I don’t want to get wrapped up in this endless war these humans are determined to keep prolonging.

“But, as it turns out, the first officer snuck onboard a shipment of ammunition meant for the Royal Navy. When he admitted this, I was beside myself with shock. He was such a lovely chap, too. After one delectable meal together, he gave me this lovely collection of spices from the East India Company.”

“Was that what you were holding while the ship was capsized?”

A rose shaded blush bloomed over Aziraphale’s cheeks. He fidgeted, only making eye contact for brief seconds. “I mean, it was a gift and it would have been terribly rude to-”

“The ship was sinking, Aziraphale! There’s a time and a place!”

“Long story short,” he continued as though Crowley hadn’t said anything, “a Royal ship followed us and... you saw what happened.”

“I take it they weren’t interested in negotiations,” she said through a sarcastic smirk.

“Well, if their way of negotiating is by firing cannons, then there was plenty of that.” With a final exasperated sigh, he glanced back at Crowley. His eyes softened. “Remember?”

“Yeah, angel,” she said, barely louder than a whisper.

She expected a smile from Aziraphale, but instead his lips dropped into a faint frown. “Oh, I doubt you’re even listening to me?”

“I’m listening.” Crowley crossed her arms, not sure how the angel came to that conclusion. Before she could say anything more, however, a violent shudder rippled down her spine. Her hands made fists in her drenched clothes.

“Right, let's get you warmed up.” Grabbing her elbow, Aziraphale steered her out the door. Crowley focused on the touch of those soft fingers on her. Her fists clenched to her sides. She followed Aziraphale’s lead and nothing more.

Crowley couldn’t remember the journey to her quarters. In what felt like an instant, she found herself in her bed with the angel tucking her in.

“Maybe some tea would do you some good. I’ll be back in a mo’.” The angel trotted out of the room.

A shiver ran through her as she stared out the cracked door. Crowley hoped Aziraphale wasn’t about to start a fire on her ship so he could make his tea. She swallowed a gulp, screwing her eyes closed. She shuddered.

Right, don’t think about that. Not a good mental image.

The shaking didn’t stop. Her whole body trembled with relentless waves of shivers. What energy she had was slowly seeping away leaving her drowsy and achy. Right, the rain. Her clothes were still wet and she was freezing.

Crowley sat up, struggling a bit to get her stiff spine to cooperate. A groan escaped her lips. She started with the corset, loosening the laces. It was harder than it should be. Her fingers didn’t want to bend and she had to stop and remember how to move her arms up to pull it off.

She got half her tunic off when she got stuck. Her arm was bent awkwardly through the sleeve. Try as she might, her sluggish mind just couldn’t work out a way to maneuver her limb out. 

_Who thought_ limbs _were a good idea anyway? Damn nuisance was what they are. Being a snake would be better. No dangling parts to worry about. Really, God did me a favor when She-_

“Crowley! What are you doing?!”

Stomping feet rushed across the room before Crowley felt her shirt forcefully yanked back down. A flash of anger escaped as a low hiss. She tried to fend Aziraphale off, but her arms weren’t listening to what she was telling them to do.

“Nooo, ‘sss makin’ me cold,” she whined.

“Crowley, please! Stop squirming! Just let me take care of you.” She felt a soft hand brush her hair back. Except for the convulsive shivers, her movement stopped. All that existed in the world now were those deep pools of blue eyes boring into her own. “You need to trust me, okay?”

“...always.”

There was a soft gasp, from who Crowley didn’t know. She couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore. Her body sagged forward. A plush shoulder to her forehead helped stop her fall. An alarm went off in her head telling her she was going too far, but she couldn’t find the strength to pull away.

“Hold on just a little longer, alright? I have some tea for you.”

Through auburn eyelashes, the shape of a teacup was just visible. She reached for it, noticing belatedly that she was in dry, fuzzy clothes she wouldn’t be caught dead in even on the best of days.

But today wasn’t that great of a day, was it. Or, she didn’t feel that great. Muscles throbbing and trembling all over, she could feel exhaustion stealing over her.

Then the rim of the porcelain cup was pressed to her lips. Aziraphale laced his fingers through her hair as he helped tip the warm liquid for her to drink. She almost choked at first, her mind more on his hand than the tea.

Heat melted through her, chasing away the frost that had settled into the dark corners inside her. A warm body pressed up against her. Her soft clothing wrapped around her like a hug from an angel. Her heart throbbed with how much Aziraphale cared for her, even if he was only nursing her back to health.

It wasn’t the best day, but it wasn’t bad. Not bad at all.

* * *

_Venice  
1497_

Crowley spied an angel sitting at his desk with his nose in a book and coffee steaming nearby.

The demon had spent the past eight days living in Aziraphale’s home, though the angel was unaware of this. He had slithered in one night through a mouse hole and into his cluttered study. With just one glimpse of Aziraphale, Crowley felt as though he could breathe for the first time after holding his breath for years.

But he hadn’t gone to him, not immediately. He was content watching the angel happily weave around his stacks of manuscripts, scrolls and paperbacks. 

Curled away in a dark cubby, golden eyes peering out between the cracks between books, the demon was able to piece together what Aziraphale was up to.

Twice this week Aziraphale had a visitor. 

He called the man Aldus. Over wine and elderflower fritters, the man spoke of a printing business, the literature he strived to replicate and spread to the masses, and a great deal of flattery over Aziraphale’s extensive collection. In one memorable moment, the human made an offhand remark that some of his books hadn’t been seen since the days Constantinople fell. The angel’s cheeks flushed pink.

Of course, Aldus was buttering him up. Aziraphale was doing him quite the favor, lending out his collection so he could, as he said, “Place a book into the hands of every resident in Venice.”

To anyone else, what Aziraphale was doing would likely be seen as generous, even noble. But Crowley knew better. Hidden from sight, the demon took a self-indulgent glee in watching the angel vigilantly hover over the human’s shoulder. Even when Aziraphale _willingly agreed_ to lend Aldus a text, he would glare at the man as though he wanted to snatch the text back and throw the man into the canal.

Aziraphale had no visitors today. He showed no signs of leaving, as well. The angel sat in his chair, a small smile directed at the first printed book from Aldus’ printing press nestled in his hands. The moka pot he filled with boiling water moments ago had already been forgotten.

Crowley was no longer in the burrow he made for himself. With the window open bringing in the ocean breeze outside, the chill it brought lured the serpent out from his cubby hole. Concealed between two piles of manuscripts, his eyes focused on a teapot sitting on the opposite side of the desk.

Crowley flicked his tongue. He could taste the heat radiating off the pot. Aziraphale even had it wrapped in a tea cozy to keep it warm longer. Not that it would make a difference. It would be hours before Aziraphale emerged from his book again. Which meant the warm teapot was his for the taking.

His vision tunneled, blocking out everything but the sight of his prey. His body stilled. All thought left Crowley’s mind. Hunting instincts took their place. No threats in sight, his prey unaware, the serpent striked.

In no longer than a second, Crowley darted across the desk—“Ah- Crowley?!”—and captured his target in his coils. His body wrapped around the teapot leaving the prey no chance of escape.

Oh, it was warm! It was like cradling a newborn star, burning with light and heat around his coils. The tea cozy was soft and had enough give to be pliant in his grip. When he flickered out his tongue, it smelled of books, elderflower, and Aziraphale. He pressed his face into the fabric, letting the heat thaw his tepid scales.

“Crowley? You’re, um— This is a tad inconvenient. If I could…”

A hand circled his body, tugging him away from his prey. Instincts flared. He tightened his embrace, not allowing his prey a chance to get away. He heard a startled squeak. The hand let go. Crowley buried his head back into the tea cozy letting out a sigh.

“Waaarm,” he moaned. This was so much better than basking in the sun. He didn’t want to let go. It was so toasty, and soft, and smelled angelic. If he could never hope for the warm embrace of an angel, let him at least have this blessed teapot.

“Yes, well, I suppose you’re right.” Aziraphale sighed. Crowley felt Aziraphale pulling him away again and groaned. “Just a tick, let me… just—get this blanket.”

A moment later, a blanket was draped over him. The entirety of his being was enveloped in a soft embrace of heat and Aziraphale’s scent. Crowley was in pure tranquility.

A hand gingerly caressed up and down his scales. The serpent sank into the touch.

“Rest now, Crowley. I’ll keep you warm.”

* * *

_Constantinople  
1191_

It was a clear, sunny day. Crowley could feel the heat of the sun sinking into his skin leaving him warm and content. There was a hint of ocean water in the air, but the walls around the city blocked any view of the sea. 

The street the little eatery Aziraphale and Crowley sat at was busy. The sound of humans bustling around was constant background noise in this part of Constantinople. At tables around them were sounds of chatting, laughter, and the clatter of silverware. One patron seemed to be haggling with a server and was losing miserably. In the eatery proper, a violinist played a lighthearted tune.

Aziraphale was rummaging through his leather bag filled with books of prophecy. Crowley missed this. They hadn’t run into each other for about a decade. He used to be able to go longer without contact. Time was gradually wearing him down. The more he tucked down his feelings, forced himself to be content, the more he longed for the angel’s presence. No matter what he did it was never en-

“Crowley? Are you there?”

Crowley startled. Aziraphale was watching him carefully, lips pressed together. “Yeah, here. Just zoned out. What’s this poem you—?”

“I have it right here. You must take a look. The manuscript itself is simply exquisite.” Aziraphale carefully laid out the book and delicately flipped the pages. 

It really was a work of art. The borders were decorated with patterns illustrating various leafage, flowers and animals in golden ink. Every few pages bore multicoloured artworks depicting whatever was happening in the poem.

“Must of cost a pretty coin for that.”

“And it was worth every one! The story it tells is just… transcendent. I’ve probably read it ten times over during my travels.”

Crowley’s lip curved into a slight sneer. “It’s not another one of those depressing ones, is it? Where everyone is screwed over at the end to make some point about _morality_ and other nonsense?”

“No. Not at all, as a matter of fact. It’s a—well, it’s mostly a love story, to be frank. Which, I know you wouldn’t care for, being a demon and all.”

Aziraphale’s suspicious glances aimed at the demon burrowed into his chest, punctured his heart and dragged a seeping rift open. If only that could drain him of the love he felt all too much. Let the blood ripple down his ribs, forming crimson waterfalls. How long would he have to drain his heart for the river to finally run dry? Would the wound bleed for eternity? Is he going to bleed for eternity?

“Naaah, loves not exactly our department.”

“There are other exciting bits, with heroes and chivalry,” Aziraphale pressed on. “But it’s the wordsmanship that makes the work so captivating! Here.” He turns the book over and starts flipping through the pages. “How about I read to you?”

“I don’t know a word of Georgian.”

“I’ll say it in Latin, then. Or—at least try to.”

As Aziraphale looked for the right page, Crowley belatedly realized he was about to listen to _Aziraphale_ reciting _love_ poems to him. Oh Satan, he shouldn’t do this. He longed for this, but —oh— it was gonna hurt. Watching him practically moan from eating milk pudding had already pushed him to his limit. How much more could he take?

The angel gave an _ahem_ , as if the words to follow weren't enough. _”Know that a rose without thorns has never been plucked-”_

“Ha!” Crowley barked, cynicism his only protection at this point. “So, what? Everyone’s an asshole no matter who you pick?”

“Of course not. It is simply conveying that all humans have flaws and no one is perfect.” In a neutral tone, he added, “And I think we both know the reason why.”

“It was their choice, not mine.”

“Of course it was…” Aziraphale was unimpressed, but stopped on another page. _“‘Oh Sun,’ he prayed, ‘who have been called the image of a sunlit night, one in essence, timeless in the realm of time, whom the heavenly bodies obey to one iota of a second-’”_

“Bit contradictory, this poet of yours.”

“Perhaps, but it is thought provoking.”

“Pff, thought provoking,” Crowley shook his head. “Anyone can write some nonsense and call it ‘thought provoking’. You say nonsense all the time. Doesn’t make it _thought provoking.”_

Once the words spilled from his mouth, he internally groaned. Ah, fuck, he pushed too hard. He only meant to make jest of the poem and now he insulted the angel. If he were a rose, there would be no stem visible underneath all his thorns.

That said, if the angel was insulted he didn’t show it. All he did was patiently flip through his book, his expression unreadable.

_“Even a serpent is lured from its lair by the sweetness of discourse.”_

“Oh, you think I’m so enticed by your sweet, angelic words, huh? A bit vain for an angel.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “I would never claim such a thing. I was merely reading from the book.”

“Uh huh, right…” Crowley leaned back, a mask of nonchalance. His eyes wandered to a group of children sitting in a circle, dealing cards and betting on candies.

“Oh, here’s one.” Aziraphale took a long breath.

_“Every rose will fade and wither, no matter though it once was fair. The dry rose falls within the garden, a new rose arises there.”_

Crowley fell.

He had been an angel once, Before. Disgustingly innocent and naive. All of them were. But the thing was, Heaven was supposed to be perfect. It was Hers, afterall. Everything She made was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

Crowley had thorns, and he wasn’t afraid to show them. And he would lay down money that every single _perfect_ angel in heaven had thorns too. That wasn’t what ended up separating them. No, it was between the ones who hid their thorns and the ones who didn’t want to hide them at all.

So Crowley fell into a garden. Feathers faded to black. His being drained of all Her grace.

And there he met an angel.

He had thought without Her love, he would never know love again. His fate was to wither away—consumed by hate that filled so many other demons. But then an angel gave away a sword and offered a wing in the rain. And from the hollows of his being, scorched barren by hellfire, a new rose emerged.

“Now, see? I knew you could appreciate at least some of Rustaveli’s work.” His eyes glimmered over the genuinely overjoyed smile stretching across his face.

Crowley’s chair gave a sharp screech before dangerously teetering back and forth, threatening to fall. Crowley only caught a moment’s glimpse of Aziraphale’s eyes growing wide. It felt as though a string of rope had jerked him from the seat, held him back from going any farther.

“Are you leaving? Right now?” Aziraphale called out to Crowley’s back. He could hear his chair scrape the ground as well.

“Just remembered a temptation I need to… tempt. I’ll see you around.”

“Perhaps I could join you and we could-”

“No, better not. You know, The Arrangement. I don’t interfere in your work, you don’t interfere in mine.” Crowley ducked his head to hide his face from Aziraphale’s view. He could feel the heat burning across his face. All he wanted was to hide the blush afflicting him—return to his place and scream until his voice went hoarse.

“O- Oh. Alright.” Crowley could practically _hear_ him fiddling his hands. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be right here.”

Crowley gave a casual wave, never looking back. Not seeing the angel watching his retreating back until he was swallowed in the crowds.

* * *

_Gяeece  
43|_

“No. No, I’m just overthinking this. Everything will sort itself out. Just... give it some time.”

Crowley had been watching Aziraphale talk to himself for the past half hour.

He had meant to drop in. Ask what the angel was up to then subtly mention a food stall by the river he passed by earlier. He still remembered the oysters. The angel was much more at ease around him when there was a table between them and a spread of food and drink to enjoy.

His foot stayed firmly planted just outside the doorway, never breaking the line of entrance. It was probably too soon. They had dinner together, what, 50 years ago. Practically yesterday with how their encounters went. It would be downright mortifying if the angel started to think he was clingy. Even worse if he figured out the reason why.

“Maybe I’m not doing this right. There must be something I haven’t tried yet. Let's see...”

Aziraphale had been fretting like this the entire time. He was bent over a table covered in scrolls. On an end table sat a wide rimmed bowl filled with water. A water clock floated inside.

“Oh, this is all my fault. I should have paid better attention. I was so fixated on my own problems I didn’t even notice…”

Crowley had a vague idea what was troubling the angel. It was entirely religious, of course. Most likely Heaven assigned him here. Humans were squabbling about some holy trinity mumbo jumbo. It was all nonsense, of course. Wouldn’t matter in the end when they were standing at the pearly gates. Not that it would stop humans from exiling those who disagreed with their holy doctrine, which was always conveniently people they happened to already hate.

“I’m completely powerless. I’ve tried everything I can, I only… Why am I so worthless?”

There was a crack in the water clock. It started to spin and wobble around the bowl. It smacked the edges over and over.

“Please wake up. Just open your eyes and look at me. Please ——”

It was a hot day. Once the rainy season had passed, the days had only grown longer and hotter. Much too hot for a water clock. They’re very tempermental. Only accurate if the water is at just the right temperature. It's no wonder the thing was breaking.

“I don’t know what to do anymore. All I can do is sit and wait. Not much help, am I. Some things never change, I suppose.”

He should tell him about the clock. It was crumbling now. Piece by piece. It was as good as melting in the water, like a styrofoam cup thrown in a fire.

“Can you hear me, Crowley?”

He jerked away from the door in alarm. Nope, too soon. 50 years was definitely too much. Better make it 100 years just to play it safe. He went back into the city square.

Dejected at his cowardice, Crowley kicked at rocks as he walked down the black tarmac road. “You know I love you, don’t you? I’m about to lose my mind, I love you so much,” he mumbled to himself. He wiped a cloth over his sweating forehead.

If only he could hear Aziraphale say the same words back to him. A fang dug into his lip, blood filling his mouth. He needed the pain. Aziraphale could never love him in return. It was ridiculous to hope for otherwise.

The sun baked the road underneath Crowley’s feet. As he walked home, his sandals stuck to the tarmac, making a popping sound with each step. Outside the city, he found some sand to burrow in to keep himself cool. Perhaps he could hibernate for the next 50 years.

* * *

_ڴgড়pt  
2╪8᳻ͪ᷉ͪ BϾ_

“Do snakes hibernate?”

“What? Hibernate? I wouldn’t know.” A pause. “Shouldn’t you know? You _are_ a snake.”

“I’m still a demon first. It’s not like I’m going around making friends with the local reptilian population.”

“Ah—well—maybe if you did you would have an answer for your question.”

As Aziraphale and Crowley tossed around their meaningless banter, they were occupying themselves with a… non-occupational task so to speak. 

It was the greatest famine Egypt had ever seen. A long drought plagued the land for many years when the sun froze in the sky. Day never fell. No clouds formed to bring them rain. No rain meant no flooding. And no flooding meant no food.

As Crowley put it, the demon trying to come off as colder than she actually felt, it wasn’t good for their numbers. How were they expected to do their jobs if the humans they were supposed to be blessing and tempting were dying all over the place? Obviously, if they helped the humans survive this literally hellish weather, they could get back to doing their jobs properly.

“Do _you_ get buddy buddy with the local animal kingdom? Sounds like something an angel would do.”

“Well, no. Not since Eden, really. You know how they all turned wild after… everything. I remember once I tried to pet the most darling looking hippopotamus and it nearly bit my arm off!”

“Arg, nasty things, hippos. Good to know, though. I’d feel _absolutely terrible_ knowing I was getting your friends murdered.”

As soon as she finished the last word, the bull standing in front of Crowley dropped to the ground. Not dead, of course. Just sleeping. It would keep sleeping for a long time. So long the humans would have to assume it was either sick or lame.

It was up to the humans what to do from there. The thing was, these bulls were considered sacred. Why they thought that, Crowley didn’t know. The humans gave them a lavish life of the finest food available as everyone else in the city starved.

Would they continue the religious ritual, leaving the beasts be until they invariably died and give the animals a burial fit for a pharaoh? Or would they slay the beasts and use their meat to feed the hungry? It wasn’t for Crowley to decide, but, either way, at least the animals wouldn’t need to be fed anymore.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at her, actually picking up the sarcasm in her voice this time. The new, unexpected reaction made Crowley’s heart flutter. Satan, she loved him so much.

“Well, if you are quite done, I’ve already finished with the extra storage unit. They should suddenly remember they forgot to check it for food in a few hours. Best we were off before then.” He dusted off his coat and vest. From where Crowley crouched on the ground, she suddenly noticed something was missing. Her eyes blinked under furrowed brows.

“What happened to your watch?”

“What watch?”

“Your gold watch. It has a dangling sort of chain on it. You always have it on you. Can’t know what time it is without a watch.”

The angel approached her. Crouched to her level. Crowley wondered if Aziraphale would embrace her, rap his arms around her as tightly as Crowley wanted to embrace him.

Instead, his hands cradled Crowley’s cheeks, his fingers so soft and gentle. Despite the wretched heat and the annoying stickiness the contact brought, she couldn’t help leaning into the touch. It was so out of the blue, as were his eyes, etched with worry and burrowing into him.

“I’m here, Crowley.”

* * *

_ɯपṠᆄᆽᎈ  
ፐ◿῔ᐬަ BCCCCCC_

The Tower of Babel has fallen.

The humans were doing so well, too. Absolutely brilliantly. This city was the greatest accomplishment in humankind’s history. The tower they built was extraordinary. Practically a city in itself. Sure, they boasted a bit saying they would build a tower that could reach the heavens, but they earned the right to be proud. It was an era of innovation, creativity, and the humans were finally, _finally_ , not killing each other.

God couldn’t have that. It was _finally_ perfect. They were doing fine on their own. And She couldn’t just let that stand.

It was insidious the way She went about it. There was no Fall. No exile from Eden. The city wasn’t annihilated with fire and brimstone.

All She did was take their words.

It started off as simple confusion, understandably. There was no way of asking what had happened and, if anyone knew, they couldn’t bloody well tell anyone. The only reason Crowley knew this was Her work was Aziraphale giving a pointed finger up to the heavens.

What started as confusion turned into hysteria. The bonds of kinship and camaraderie tore apart. Fights broke out across the capital. Crowley wasn’t sure if anyone knew why they were even fighting each other. 

As the angel took his arm and led them out of harm's way, all the demon could do was watch the fires break out and ask why, why, _why?_

It was nightfall. Out the window, Crowley could see the glow of the burning city—hear the cries and shouting in the distance. The air itself was on fire from all the heat.

He tried not to focus on that. Instead he focused on the hand stroking his hair and the incoherent words of the angel.

Aziraphale and Crowley were laying together on a futon. There was nothing they could do. Nothing to say to each other, literally. When Aziraphale found him that morning, he started rambling in whatever language the angel—and only the angel—could speak. Crowley had to put a finger to his mouth to silence him and say, “Yeah, me too,” before Aziraphale understood.

They couldn’t speak to each other. In words, anyway. As it turned out, a lot could be spoken without any sort of language. For starters, to tell Aziraphale that he was entirely fed up with this whole ordeal and wanted nothing more to do with it, Crowley threw himself face-first into the first bed he saw.

Aziraphale wasn’t far behind. He scolded and huffed, but then he crawled into bed after the demon. His body was touching Crowley’s back. Then a hand was tangled in the long strands of his hair. Soothing strokes. He sighed.

Crowley didn’t want a language anymore. Let them keep speaking through touch. Each time those fingers rubbed his head they said, _It’s alright, I know. I’m here now. I’m here._ Crowley whined cause it was everything— _everything_ —he could ever want. Just for this moment, just this once, he let himself feel loved by the angel he adored.

One day, one day the angel would grow to love as he did. They would make a new language, one that only they knew. With every word they uttered, they would also be saying “I love you”.

Aziraphale spoke and it sounded like music. There was meaning somewhere in those words, but the voice he knew so well was calm. Assuring. Crowley lost himself in it. When he heard paper turning, he rolled over.

Aziraphale was reading.

Crowley was speechless. Wrong word. Crowley was dumbfounded. The closest thing to a utopia humanity would ever have was burning outside the window, and Aziraphale was reading a book.

Oh, now _that_ was hilarious. All the grief and irritation he’d felt before melted away. Crowley rested his head on a pillow and snickered, not giggled. Demons don’t giggle. They laughed in jest, chuckled sarcastically and snickered, but never giggled.

His sides shook as Crowley could feel a full laugh building up. It was such an Aziraphale thing to do. Even when God took away all the words Adam once created, effectively making every written work obsolete, Aziraphale would _still_ read, the stubborn angel.

Crowley was outright laughing now. What was it? ‘The Tale of Genji’? ‘The Knight in the Panther’s Skin’? ‘ _Hamlet’_?

“Crowley?”

He ‘snickered’ again. Right, of course that wouldn’t translate. It was elating knowing the one word Crowley could understand from Aziraphale was his own name. He rolled back over, his laughs petering out.

She could take everything from him, even his words, but She could never take away his name.

* * *

_ԣ̴̱̾ℴ̵͖͌Ჯ̶̞̈‹̵͖̈́Ბ̵̣͝ҍ̶̭̎я̸͇̇  
↵̶̖͒⌾̴̘̚ݗ̴̣̓ԣ̷̪͝ᶋ̸̺͒ƀ̴̪Ȏ̵̱̒_

“Stay with me!”

Crowley stood in the distance out of sight. Shocked. Frozen in place. Even in the arid heat of the desert, Crowley could feel a chill running through him.

“Breathe! Please! You have to breathe!”

The shouts pierced the air. Eve was sobbing and wailing. She shook Abel’s listless body. Blood continued to pool around him.

“No! Don’t leave me! You can’t leave me! I need you!”

Crowley felt just like her son. The blood drained from him. His whole body grew cold. He couldn’t breathe. He could only watch, heart shattered and aching.

“Please, God, no! No, no, no, no, no, no...Don’t leave me! I can’t—I can’t live without you! I can’t!”

He should go. There was nothing else anyone could do. His body was stuck in place, as though Eve’s cries of anguish had him take root into the ground, pulling him deeper into the earth.

“I don’t want to lose you! I love you! I love you so much, please! Come back to me!”

Crowley was running. Away from Eve huddled over her dead son. Away from howls of a grieving mother. His feet raced through sand as fast as they could carry him.

He couldn’t let Aziraphale see. It would ruin him. One sight of the charred, burned flesh and he would know. Just like Crowley knew. There was only one thing on Earth that could make that kind of wound.

“Aziraphale! Angel! Where are you?!”

He shouted and ran. Didn’t know how. He still felt like the wind was knocked out of him. But he pressed on. He had to find the angel. Aziraphale needed him.

He stumbled into an oasis. Stumbled through some flora. And there he was. Aziraphale was on the ground, falling on his bottom at Crowley’s sudden appearance. Crowley nearly laughed in relief.

Aziraphale wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were wide. Petrified. Staring at something behind him.

It hadn’t occurred to Crowley. If Abel was dead, wounded, _murdered_ , then someone had done that to him. And that someone was still on the loose.

Crowley turned. He saw a man. Cain. Blue and pink flowered dress. Yellow jacket. A crowbar swinging at him.

A blow to the gut. Crowley hit the ground. He was gasping for air. Clutching his chest. Breathes. Bloody hell that hurt.

“Crowley! Oh God, Crowley!”

A weight hit him in the chest again, but this time it was soft. Heavy, but soft. Aziraphale was squeezing him. His whole body trembled. Crowley’s shirt was getting wet. A hand gripped his head, fingers tangled in his hair.

“Crowley! Crowley… Crowley…” The angel sobbed this mantra over and over. 

The weight of Aziraphale’s body was grounding. Helped him pull himself up, walk against the current threatening to drag him back under. He saw a roof above him. A ceiling fan. It smelled like books. And Aziraphale.

Crowley wanted to rub the angel’s back, but he was so tired. His arms wouldn’t move. He listened to the sobs, not understanding why his angel was crying but wanting to soothe him. Needed to. Keeping the angel happy was the only way he could love him. It was his purpose in life. So he had to. Somehow.

“I’m here…” Crowley’s voice croaked. His face flushed. He could feel the river pulling him back under. “M’here…”

* * *

_the Fall_

The demon was screaming.

It wasn’t just them. In this wasteland of brimstone and hellfire, angels that had fallen from Heaven now joined together to make a new choir. The new gospel they sang was one of agony, torment, and loss.

Hellfire had reshaped them. It invaded their body, burned away every bit of Her Grace that was in them. They twisted and contorted. Sulphur and tar blackened their wings. Everything around them attacked with a malicious hunger threatening to consume them whole.

The demon was wailing and sobbing. Every part of their body was inflamed. They were on fire, burning alive. If only it could be over. Their skin could melt off and become one with the brimstone. It would be worth it not to feel anymore. Not to feel anything.

Then there were hands on them. They pulled away, hissed, sobbed at the unfamiliar voice that escaped their mouth. What have they become?

“Shhh, it’s alright. I’ve got you.”

The demon whined. Someone was there. The hands that touched them didn’t burn but soothed. It cooled their skin and made their heart throb. A soft breeze flowed over their body. They felt a feather brush their arm.

“It hurts!”

“Where does it hurt?” The sweet voice dulled the pain as much as the hands. But it wasn’t enough, it hurt so much.

“Inside,” the demon cried.

A hand caressed their cheek. “Inside?”

“I’m—I’m empty. I’m so empty!”

Everything that they were was gone, burned to ash leaving behind a void inside them. They didn’t know who they were now, _what_ they were. It was all gone. They would never be the angel they once were again. It was like watching their own death.

They howled and wailed. The wind blew and the hands eased the physical pain, but they did nothing to assuage the demon’s misery.

“What’s hurting you, dear? Is it me? Is this too much?”

The hands retreated and the demon wrenched them back. They opened their eyes, the world around them dulled of all color.

Except those eyes. Sapphire eyes looked down at them, surrounded by pure white wings untouched by the hell they were in.

An angel. A real angel.

“Please, tell me what you need.”

The demon whimpered. “Take me back. Take me back, please! I don’t want this—”

“Take you back, where?” Plush fingers stroked calming circles over his temple.

“To Her…” Their voice cracked.

Angelic eyes narrowed before widening, a look of comprehension washing over their delicate face. “Oh…”

In the demon was a war. There was a voice, so faint it was hardly noticeable among the constant screams. The voice reminded them of the wrongness they felt in Heaven. It spoke of how they didn’t fit in. They didn’t belong in Heaven. This is where they belong now.

But losing everything they once were was eating away at their heart. They wanted so much to turn back the clock, make everything that happened go away. They would know who they were. She would love them again. She would… oh God!

“She doesn’t love me!” They wailed. Their back arched as the horrifying realization broke them. “Why?! Why don’t you love me, Lord?! I- I… I need- I… I just want- want you to love me, please…”

The demon could feel it ripping now. A reality that was filled with joy and love shattered in their mind. There was no hope was there? They would drown in this torment. Bathe in hellfire for eternity. No one would ever love them. There was nothing left to love. Everything that made them wonderful was no more. There was nothing left worth loving.

The angel’s hands enshrined his face. The touch to his cheeks was gentle, but there was an underlying strength there. It didn’t threaten them. It was the strength of a guardian. A promise to never use that strength against them.

“Listen to me, Crowley,” the stern voice said. The demon nearly gasped at the name. “You are not Falling. You are safe. You are loved. You are so loved, my dear.”

A whimper escaped Crowley’s lips. He leaned into the hands holding him.

“I can’t say I know for sure. And I know you will likely disagree. But I do believe She loves you. I do, truly. I cannot possibly imagine God not loving you as much as I do.”

That’s when it clicked in place. Aziraphale was here. It was him. So benevolent that even the flames in the deepest pits of Hell couldn’t tarnish him. The angel was cradling him, healing his wounds and pouring him with love. Aziraphale loved him. He said that he loved him.

“This isn’t real.”

It made sense now. An angel couldn’t survive here without falling themselves. And Aziraphale would never say that he loved him. Crowley wasn’t in hell. He wasn’t falling. Everything around him wasn’t actually happening.

“None of this is real,” he muttered as the molten sulphur swallowed him.

* * *

_…_

The angel rested in the primordial waters.

It wasn’t day or night, or anytime really. Here, time was molded like clay. You could stretch it out really long or bundle it up. Spin the clay at high speed or work on it slowly. Unlike clay, time never hardened. Clay dries overtime, but there was no overtime when molding time. It remained timeless until you wanted to mold it some more.

In this timelessness, the angel relaxed, letting his body sink just below the surface, enough to submerge his body into the water.

To be fair, this was how it should be. The angel thought this as he lifted a handful of water and watched the liquid pour out of his hand, turning into stars before falling back into the water. Sinking was what demons do. He lost his ability to walk on water when he went down like a lead balloon.

Emotions the angel didn’t want to look at were bubbling up inside. Nostalgia, longing, remorse. His heart was building a dam, trying to hold it in. Contain it before it spilled over. If he could, he would rather not give a damn.

The angel didn’t want to look at himself. White feathers and heavenly robes weren't his style. And it would never be his style. Bitterness rose to the surface and that— _that_ —he embraced. It was better to focus on everything he lost. Even as he stared into the beauty of nebulae and galaxies above him, he couldn’t let himself want more.

The sound of dripping water met his ear. Rhythmic. Growing louder. Footsteps across the waters.

The angel made a point not to look. His sun-burning eyes remained fixed on his creations above. Whoever was here didn’t matter. They weren’t real. Nothing was real.

“Comfortable?”

Memories can be a tangled mess, making connections that aren’t very obvious. The taste of a particular type of cherry touched on the memory of trying to spit cherry pits into a distant bucket at the annoyance of a cotton-haired friend. The touch of wet wood reminded him of hiding children on a rocking boat while their families drowned in the waters below.

The voice could not be contained by any dam. The angel was flooded with memories of joy, boundless creativity, and most of all love. It was cruel. There was no defense for how much it broke him.

A whisper in his mind told him he should be snarky, but the effort that would take didn’t seem worth it. He was tired. One word from that voice drained him of whatever strength he had left. It just wasn’t in him.

He heard a splash just beyond his feet. Then silence. He closed his eyes. Internally, he sighed at himself, already annoyed at his lack of self-control. He looked.

And there She was—sitting crossed legged in the center of ripples that haloed around her. There was nothing extraordinary about Her. No wings or beams of light. The closest She had to a halo was the ball of hair encircling Her head. She looked so human, a spitting image of Eve. Just your ordinary small, fragile human.

Except for the love. The sensation was that of a phantom limb. He shouldn’t feel love. He wasn’t really an angel. She wasn’t here. He wasn’t here. It was the tangled web of his memories. The image of Her was the image of love.

That, too, was cruel.

“How are you feeling?”

“... like shit.”

He could already hear Aziraphale gasping in his head over using such crass language in Her presence. The angel didn’t care. He was in a fake Heaven with a fake God and he could say whatever he damned well pleased.

“I’m not surprised.” There was a lilt in Her voice. A hint of a smile. 

Water dripped as She gathered some in her hands. With a graceful touch, She shaped them into stars. A fiery glow illuminated them both.

The angel was no longer sinking into the infinite sea. The sun felt warm, but it couldn’t kindle the void She left in him.

“You abandoned me.”

A frown tugged the corner of Her lips. She let the words settle—pondering the taste of them. “I suppose I did.”

“There’s no _‘suppose’_. There’s nothing to _‘suppose’_. It’s what you did. As simple as that.”

“Are we really going to talk about this now?”

“No better time than the present.” And what better time would there be, the angel thought. It wasn’t everyday you got the chance to go off on your own inner demon, er, inner God.

“I trusted you, you know,” the angel continued. “Even when everything was going wrong, I had _faith_ in you. That we could work it out somehow. And look where that faith got me.”

“I know,” She said. Her eyes avoided him. She looked so… sad. The angel hated it. Hated how vulnerable she looked. “I know I hurt you. But you must understand that I thought I-”

“I don’t care what you thought. I really don’t.”

A deafening silence settled between them. A penny could drop and, well, this was quite the wishing well to drop a penny into. A timeless hour slowly passed in a single moment.

Her voice broke the silence. “What now then?”

“Like I know.”

“Well, I’m here now, as you can see.” Her hand moved nimbly up and down highlighting how present She was. “I don’t plan on leaving you like I did before. I’ll be here as long as you’ll have me.”

“Why,” the angel spat at Her with a curled lip. “What—because you _love_ me like you love everything?! Like how you loved the Earth so much you would let it be destroyed, for heaven’s sake?!”

“It wasn’t destroyed in the end, now was it?” And She dared to smile at him. Like she was guiltless in all this. “And I do love you, you know. Even back then, I never stopped loving you.”

“No, no, no, don’t. Just—just stop. I don’t…” 

It was too much. The angel curled up hiding his face from Her. The image of Her, this image of love, was tarnished now. It would never be like how it was before. Her rejection—the Fall—all the pain had changed him. This love was foreign to him now. She was practically a stranger to him anymore. There was only one love he cared about. And that love didn’t belong to Her.

“I-” 

His throat constricted. Everything in him didn’t want to admit this. It made him weak, exposed, and unbearably honest. It’s not like he had to say anything. None of this mattered. What happened in the illusionary heavens stayed in the illusionary heavens. Yet—

It mattered to him. In the real world, he would never let himself say this outloud. Since the Fall, he stomped it all down, as deep inside him as he could. This was his chance to let it out. For once, he could be free of some of the turmoil raging within—drain the wound and let it heal.

He breathed in deep.

“I loved you. It bloody hurt to love you so much. Even now—I still love you. As much as I try to hide it, I do… For so long, all I wanted was for you to love me. But I- I can’t. I just can’t do this. Not anymore. I’m done. I need to move on. Live my life.”

Her lips tightened. Perhaps there had been an ethereal light to Her, because that light in Her eyes was now gone. 

“Does it have to be? I can show you how much I love you? I’ll prove to you-”

“No. I don’t want your love. It’s too late.”

He closed his eyes and let out a sigh. For a moment, the demon felt weightless. He did it. The burden was gone.

He was free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! this isn't my first fanfic but it's been a while since I've been busy with my graduate degree. i'm so excited to be back and to take part in such a lovely fandom!
> 
> the fic will follow a "Crowley POV > Aziraphale POV > Mixed POV" format. this is loooong for a chapter, but i didn't have the heart to break it into different chapters. but, hey, that just means more for you guys
> 
> Comments are always appreciated <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of Armagedidn't, Aziraphale dines with Crowley at the Ritz basking in their newfound freedom. Aziraphale can barely contain his excitement as he plans to spend the rest of the day (and the rest of eternity) with Crowley.
> 
> Then, Crowley collapses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Trigger warning: Serious illness.  
>  This chapter focuses on Aziraphale caring for a very sick Crowley. Considering current events, please take the tags into consideration and proceed with caution.  
> _  
> \---
> 
> when i posted the first chapter of this fic, i thought ‘i’m just gonna take a week to relax before starting the next chapter.’ i didn’t expect a global pandemic to occur during that week and turn life upside down lol this year hasn’t been great for me. for instance, part of this chapter was written while i was hospitalized (non-covid related, thankfully, and i’m doing much better) it took awhile for me to really be able to jump back into writing
> 
> i hope you enjoy this second part! if it has been a while since reading the first chapter, i recommend going over it again, or even having both chapters open side by side to see how they compare (they are very different yet overlap in interesting ways)
> 
> in the end notes i’ll include some of the less obvious overlaps, but the many obvious ones i’ll leave for you to find

_The Ritz  
This 21st day of August in the year of our Lord, 2019_

If ever was there a moment Aziraphale wished could stretch on for the rest of eternity, wished the kitchen would send dish after dish with no end, or for the hands of the pianist to never grow weary as they danced endlessly across black and white keys, it was in this moment, here, with Crowley beside him as they looked to a future that, for once, held so much promise.

While Aziraphale had never dreamed before, he imagined it would be much like this. Everything was absolutely perfect. The Earth was safe from Armegeddon gifting them an endless future brimming with so much possibility. They were truely free for the first time in their long lives. 

Aziraphale’s heart soared. At the start, he could hardly imagine ever stopping the apocalypse at all let alone this new reality. It hardly felt real. Suddenly, everything seemed to glow and glisten as his eyes devoured everything that was still here! The atmosphere was wonderful, the food exquisite, and he could imagine no better company to share it with than his dear Crowley.

Everything he could ever hope for was right here.

In the end, no amount of pea veloute or ruinart champagne could draw his attention away from the demon at his side. It didn’t escape Aziraphale’s attention how relaxed Crowley was. He was practically melting in his chair. There was none of that pent up energy or underlying tension Aziraphale was so used to.

And Crowley was smiling, and it was the most beautiful sight Azirphale had ever beheld. 

With both of their offices out of the way, Aziraphale no longer had to hide. He could love Crowley with no reservations. If he wanted to take extra glances or lean closer to the demon, he could. Aziraphale felt like he was floating from all the love cascading through him.

As an angel, Aziraphale considered himself an expert on love. Angels, afterall, were made of love just as humans were made of blood and flesh. If 6,000 years on Earth had taught him anything it was that there wasn’t a living creature he couldn’t love. Even those pesky humans who wanted to take his books he felt some level of love for. No matter how distasteful they were.

That is how Aziraphale knew that love didn’t ebb and wane - it was a constant force in the universe.

So when the dust settled and a dusty case with his prophetic books was handed to him, Aziraphale knew he would forever be in love with Crowley. Of course, he had loved him before in a general sense. Through the ages, other feelings of trust and kinship joined the mix to create a feeling of companionship. But none of it compared to feeling verklempt with the longing that flowed deep in his heart. It was a form of love he had only read about in novels, and now this love would carry him through the rest of eternity.

It was enough. Absolutley tickety-boo. He would happily love Crowley. It was his duty to love. Even if the demon could not love in return, Aziraphale would accept what he could offer. His company was all he needed.

Every angel sensed love in different ways. For some it came to them as music. Others could see love in varying colors. As for Aziraphale, it was a sensation - fuzzy, tingling that started at his chest and ran up to the top of his head. Depending on the sensation, he could distinguish between love shared between friends, family, lovers, and all the varied myriad forms love takes.

It thrummed around him in the background. All the humans with their varying stories gathered at this one place to enjoy a good meal. 

He focused now, watching Crowley’s iniquitous behavior to their waiter and teasing Aziraphale for pointing it out. Even as he flashed Aziraphale with a devilish grin for successfully getting under his skin, Aziraphale felt nothing from the demon. It was no different than trying to sense love from a brick wall. None of the love Aziraphale felt for Crowley was reciprocated.

It was understandable given what he was. If angels were beings of love, then demons were the absence of it. They were stripped of Her love when they fell out of God’s grace. It would be unfair for the angel to expect love from a creature that was incapable of it.

With the grace of an angel, Aziraphale accepted this. He shared an amused smile filling it with all the love he felt for his dear friend. If Crowley couldn’t feel love, then he would just have to love enough for both of them.

In the end, Aziraphale couldn’t suppress his elation for their newfound freedom. It bubbled to the surface accompanied with a fair amount of restlessness. Despite not making it to dessert, he was already discussing plans for how to spend the rest of their day.

As Crowley accepted his invitation for an early nightcap at the bookshop, Aziraphale did his best to keep his unbridled joy in check. It was sinking in all the more that they could have this. They could meet together without fear of who will see. There was no need for excuses or cover stories. They could just be themselves. Enjoy being together. Inside he felt imbued with a warmth that radiated to every corner of his being.

“Oh, well, wonderful!” Aziraphale replied as he thought over the practical matters of the evening. “There may be enough time for a walk to your car first before it gets dark. You can drive us over. Get reacquainted with your Bentley, as it were.”

“How late is it?”

Aziraphale drummed his restless fingers as Crowley checked his watch. When Crowley wasn’t forthcoming with a response, Aziraphale hastily said, “Oh, it shouldn’t be too late. It doesn’t look like they’ve pulled out the dinner menus yet. So, does that sound good to you?”

“Yeah. Sure, angel. Whatever you like,” Crowley said with a light yawn. 

“Are you alright, dear?”

“Mmm… yeah.”

Aziraphale eyed him suspiciously. It was hard to tell from behind those glasses if he was bored or if the champagne had gone to his head. Aziraphale made a mental note to pull out the quilt Crowley likes when they get back to the shop.

“Right. Best we take dessert to go.”

Once everything was in order and with dessert at hand, Aziraphale eyed Crowley. “Ready?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Azirphale practically jumped from his seat. In his eagerness, he nearly left the chair pulled away from the table like some sort of barbarian. He swung around to push his seat in.

The sound of a chair grating across the floor caught Aziraphale’s attention. Crowley stumbled as he stood. His hand slammed on the table to steady himself. Aziraphale opened his mouth, but before he could express any words of concern, Crowley collapsed to the ground.

Aziraphale’s body froze but his heart raced. He was no longer in the Ritz. He was standing against Satan at an airstrip in Tadfield. He was facing a jury of demons as they called for Crowley’s destruction. Every hope he had moments before vanished. They were still enemies. Heaven and Hell were still after them. They had to keep fighting for their lives.

He scanned the restaurant. His power stretched out to detect any trace of divine or hellish forces afoot. There was nothing. No angels coming to ambush them. No demons in dresses wielding any crowbars. The only power he could sense was the occult being laying crumpled on the floor at his feet.

It wasn’t until Aziraphale was sure no one was after them that he could register what was happening. The restaurant was silent. The music had stopped. All eyes stared in their direction with some workers rushing toward them. And Crowley wasn’t moving. Crowley wasn’t moving.

“Crowley!”

He fell to the demon’s side, pushing him onto his back. Behind black lenses Aziraphale could see his eyes were firmly closed. He shook his shoulders, partly to wake him and partly to feel like he was doing something.

“Crowley?”

Crowley’s head rocked back and forth. He didn’t stir.

“Oh dear…”

“Is Mr. Crowley okay? Is he hurt?”

Aziraphale jumped at the person suddenly beside him. 

It wasn’t their current waiter. The middle aged woman croached by him, Ms. Rachel Ticke, has worked here as a waitress for many years. She had wicked humor Crowley found amusing and she has been known to bring Aziraphale some “mistakes” from the kitchen accompanied with a wink.

“I- I don’t know. He…” Aziraphale tried to say more but no words came to him.

“I’ll call an ambulance.”

“That won’t be necessary!” In his panic, the miracle he used may have been stronger than intended. Ms. Ticke and those nearby recoiled as though hit by a gust of wind. “Everything’s quite alright. No need to worry. My friend just had too many drinks.”

Just like that, everything went back to the way it was. The murmur of light conversation picked up. Glass jingled and chimed against silverware. The piano started up again with a slow, jazzy tune.

“Yeah, I’ve had those days myself. Might have a strong one after my shift.”

Ms. Ticke got up with a laugh and joined the amused wait staff gathered behind her. Yes, that miracle had been quite strong.

He shook his head, turning back to the task at hand.

“Crowley, you need to wake up!”

He tried to rouse the demon, shaking his shoulders. At last, Crowley woke with a groan.

“Five mo’ munootessss…” Crowley slurred and rolled his head away from him. Aziraphale could still smell the champagne in his breath.

All of Aziraphale’s worry dissipated, only to be replaced with unearthly frustration.

“Now really!” With a huff, he left the demon in his drunken stupor.

He looked for the waitress again, fists balled up at his sides. As soon as they got back to the bookshop, he was going to make Crowley sober up and give him a good talking to. Of all the times to get inebriated… he hadn’t even noticed how much the demon had been drinking. They had survived so much in just the past 24 hours. There was no need to give him such a fright!

These thoughts continued to fume in his head as he plastered on a perfectly respectful, perfectly human smile. He approached the waitress, who gave a tight smile in return.

“You… doing alright, Mr. Fell?”

“Yes, yes. Everything’s lovely. Actually, I was wondering if you could call us a cab. I don’t believe my… acquaintance is in any state to drive.”

Her eyebrows rose over an amused smile. “In for a row, is he?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“I’d pay to see that.” She reached into her apron, pulling out a smart telephone. “Here, I’ll do you one better and get you an Uber. Where are you going?”

“Oh, um, it’s- to A.Z. Fell & Co. bookshop. It’s just down the road-”

“Right, found it. I’ll let you know when it’s here.”

“Yes, yes. Thank you! Right…” He turned away a moment only to turn back to her. “This ‘Uber’ is a taxi, correct?”

A pause. “Yeah… I’ll walk you to it when it gets here.”

“Oh, yes. Quite. Just wanted to make sure. Well. Thank you so much. I’ll just-” He pointed toward his table as he stepped away.

Back at the table, Crowley was still lazing about on the floor. Somehow he had miraculously not been stepped on yet, not that he didn’t deserve it.

Aziraphale crossed his arms.

“I’ll have you know I called for a taxi and I will hear no complaints from you. If you think I will carry your sloshed corporation across London, you are sorely mistaken!”

He expected Crowley to moan and whine over how much he loathed taxis. Instead, he ignored him with not so much as a scowl.

“Now you’re being childish. Just because you helped save the world doesn’t mean you get to sleep wherever you like. Come on, get up.”

Aziraphale grabbed an arm and tugged. There was no reaction. His body jostled from the pull then layed still. His arm remained limp in Azirphale’s hand.

Alarm bells started going off in Aziraphale’s head, but, no, he must be asleep. Crowley was fine just a moment ago. Aziraphale bent over Crowley and started shaking him.

“Wake up, Crowley!”

His head swayed back and forth. Aziraphale tried patting his cheek. Nothing. In a regretful violation of Crowley’s boundaries, he took off his glasses and lifted an eyelid. His eye stared away unseeing, the sclera as golden as they were back in Eden. He took his wrist in hand. A pulse, at least. His chest rose and fell. But nothing else.

Aziraphale pulled away. He sat there, silent, looking down at his friend.

All around, the world continued on. Patrons at the Ritz continued to dine. A table nearby broke out into laughter. The pianist played a jaunty number with a great flourish of his hands. The world was safe. Life would go on. Everything was quite alright.

“Something’s wrong,” Aziraphale said.

* * *

_Outside the Ritz  
21st day of August, in the year 2019_

Ms. Ticke held the door open for Aziraphale. He carried Crowley close to him, one arm under his knees and the other held firm to his shoulders to keep his head from rolling back.

This wasn’t the first time Aziraphale had to carry Crowley out of an establishment. It went either one of two ways. 

On most occasions, Crowley was so drunk he couldn’t remember what miracles were. It was a walking battle trying to keep hold of the serpent as he wiggled and squirmed. Crowley would moan and grumble loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. It would be, ‘Put me down, Angel! I’m not that drunk! The wind pushed me isss all!’ or ‘I could walk jussst fine if the ground wasssn’t ssso wobbly.’

On a few occasions, the restless demon was more peaceful. He would pet the side of Aziraphale’s face—though it felt more like slow smacks than petting. Crowley wouldn’t look anywhere else but at Aziraphale. In a slurred voice that was a touch too loud to be polite, he would say things like, ‘You’re more beautiful than ssstarsss, Angel,’ and ‘You make everything ssso much better. Everything’sss better when you’re here. Ssstay here, okay, Angel?’

Under no circumstance would Aziraphale ever admit how much he enjoyed those occassions.

This, however, was unlike any of those times before. 

Crowley’s body was limp and lifeless. Every part of him yielded to the smallest movement, drooping this way and that. This wasn’t a drunk Crowley. No, this felt more like carrying a dying soldier off a battlefield, praying the child would live long enough to perform a miracle.

But there were signs of life—he had to hold on to that! Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s steady breath against his neck. The moment they were out on the street and the hot, summer wind hit them, Crowley stirred for a moment. His head turned, nestling his face into Aziraphale’s jacket. 

A wave of hope and a need to protect washed over Aziraphale. He tightened his hold on Crowley.

“Don’t worry, dear. I’ll take care of you,” he said softly. He could feel Crowley’s breathing deepen as they stepped out into the hustle of London traffic.

_HONK!!!_

Aziraphale jumped at a carhorn blaring particularly nearby. In that direction, Ms. Ticke was waving him over.

“Here’s your Uber, Mr. Fell!”

It was an unremarkable automobile, not because it was of poor quality but that it didn’t stand out amongst all the other vehicles on London’s streets. Aziraphale found this bizarre. It was true that he thought all cars looked the same, something Crowley took as a personal insult. But at least he could tell a car from a taxi from a bus. The only indication this car was any different from the others was a small sign in the back window that read “Uber”.

“Get out of the way!”

Behind the “Uber”, a disgruntled man continued to honk his horn and make rude gestures out his window. Aziraphale shot a pointed glare as he passed.

“Here you are. Get home safely, you two,” Ms. Ticke said, opening the car door.

“You are a dear. Thank you for going through all the trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all. Cheers.” Once they were inside she closed the car door behind them.

Aziraphale was having a particularly rough time trying to situate Crowley. He tried sitting Crowley up in the seat beside him, reclined a bit against the seat. But he kept sagging to the side or tilting forward. In the rear view mirror, two eyes and a furrowed brow watched this embarrassing spectacle unfold.

“Just so you know, there’s an extra fee for drunk passengers.”

“He’s not- I mean, that’s fine. Just fine. Money isn’t an issue.”

“... there’s some plastic bags in the seat pocket if you need them.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Aziraphale was a bit too distracted to follow along with what the driver was saying. Realizing there was no helping it, Aziraphale allowed Crowley to topple over. He slowed his fall until his head landed in Aziraphale’s lap. Crowley moved his head just the slightest bit and sighed.

Aziraphale brushed a few stray strands of hair out of his face. He settled his hand in those red locks, his thumb circling Crowley’s temple.

“There you are.” Aziraphale smiled down at him.

The driver was already trying to pull out, waiting for that rude man to pass him. Their “Uber” driver looked to be a younger man, as best he could tell from this view. Bigger than Aziraphale, he was twice as large and just as soft. There was a kindness to him, a residual feeling of love just below the surface.

“Um, excuse me, don’t you need the address first?” Aziraphale asked.

The driver looked at his square telephone. “It’s A.Z. Fell & Co., right?”

“Yes, quite right. Ms. Ticke told you then.”

The driver's eyes looked quite bewildered in the mirror. The man turned his attention back to the telephone. A list of words moved across the screen until his finger settled on “Middle aged gay couple”. Young people’s bebop started playing in the car.

As the man pulled into traffic, Aziraphale grinned to himself with a bit of a wiggle. He felt very pleased with himself despite the ludicrous song about “boogie shoes” playing in the background.

The feeling dissolved as Aziraphale observed Crowley, searching for some sign that could explain why he wouldn’t wake up. He looked so peaceful. All the lines on his face were smoothed out and relaxed. His mouth was parted open. Aziraphale could hear a soft hiss with every slow exhale.

It wasn’t right that such a serene face made Aziraphale feel so frightfully worried.

The look of serenity disappeared in an instant. Suddenly, Crowley’s face contorted into a grimace. He started to squirm, his back arching slightly. His lips moved to an incoherent mumble followed by a whimper.

“Crowley?”

He turned, burying his face in Aziraphale’s stomach. At the same time, Aziraphale felt a sudden spike of occult energy. It was gone as soon as it came, leaving Aziraphale no time to counteract it. Crowley’s movements came to a stop. His body loosened, relaxing back into slumber.

It was then he noticed the music had been cut out with static. The unsettling noise lasted a moment before a familiar voice sang from the speakers.

_—seems to me_

_We’ve not listened to_

_Or spoken about it at all_

Aziraphale saw the driver’s eyes dart over to the speakers.

_The fact that time is running out_

_For us all_

Aziraphale frowned at the radio. He didn’t believe this song was on any of Crowley’s greatest hits cassettes. He could see why.

_Time waits for nobody_

“Sorry,” the driver said. “Don’t remember adding that one.”

_Time waits for no one_

The driver pressed and swiped a finger to his telephone. The song started to skip.

_Time— waits—_

_You don’t need me—_

Visibly frustrated, the driver started pressing buttons on the side of the device.

_—to me we’ve not cared enough_

_Or confided in each other—_

_—no one—_

_—to trust—_

_—nobody—_

_—to be friends with—_

_—no more—_

_—time—_

_—nobod—_ 1

With the pull of a cord, the music stopped. A heavy silence settled in the car.

“Thing must be broken…” the driver mumbled.

Aziraphale realized there was a loud thrumming in his chest. He willed his heart to slow down. A deep breath passed through his lips. His fingers itched, feeling an urge to wringe them together but left with no room to do so with Crowley in his lap.

A flashing light caught his attention. On the car’s radio, a clock glowed in a blue light. The time was rapidly flashing on the screen. It started at 1:00, then 2:00, followed by 3:00. It continued climbing in quick ascension. At 9:00, it started at 1:00 and restarted its escalation. Over and over.

With a downward tug of his hand, Aziraphale turned the radio off. The light went out. All was calm except for the muffled sounds of traffic outside and the eerie silence that had settled in the car.

There was no denying Aziraphale felt unnerved. The music had… coincidentally made some unsettling messages. For now, he would rather settle into the comfort of his podsnappery than rumminate. He instead focused on Crowley. His fingers brushed through Crowley’s hair, letting out some of his nervous energy.

A mantra circled in Aziraphale’s head. _To the bookshop. Up the stairs. Into the bedroom._ He curled a finger around one of Crowley’s longer locks. _To the bookshop. Up the stairs. Into the bedroom. To the—_

Crowley shivered just then. He pressed closer to Aziraphale before his body went lax again. Aziraphale waited, but he did not wake. Gentle fingers swept back his hair.

“We’re almost there,” Aziraphale whispered so the driver wouldn’t hear. Could Crowley even hear him? Was Crowley— No, stop that! _To the bookshop. Up the stairs. Into the bedroom…_

It wasn’t long before the driver pulled up in front of the bookshop. Aziraphale leaned forward while keeping a firm hold of Crowley.

“Thank you so much, um, Mr…”

“Oh, it’s Mr. Toc. Well, Jeremy. Just Jeremy’s fine.”

“Well, thank you, Jeremy. What do I owe you for the fare?” Aziraphale reached into his empty pocket, ready to conveniently pull out the exact amount.

Jeremy twisted around to face Aziraphale. “You don’t pay cash with Uber. But don’t worry about it. The lady earlier said she was paying for your ride. You’re all set.”

“Oh! Oh, that’s so sweet of her!” Aziraphale’s heart swelled at such a kind yet unexpected gesture. The next time he saw Ms. Ticke he would be sure to perform a special miracle in return. Humans were so wonderful! Such kind crea—

“Do you need help with the door?” Jeremy asked.

“Oh no, not at all. I’ll be on my way.” Aziraphale scrunched his nose and the door opened of its own accord. As he got a good grip on Crowley, he slipped a note to the driver. “Here’s a tip at least. To help fix the radio. Good day!”

Aziraphale exited the vehicle, hoisting Crowley with him.

“Thanks a lot. Have a good— Bloody he-”

The car door snapped shut, missing the boy’s reaction to his generous tip. Aziraphale hoped no one noticed the door shut itself with no assistance, but he was too preoccupied to worry about that.

Right, _to the bookshop. Up the stairs. Into the bedroom…_

_To the bookshop._

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows expectantly at the door. While the ritual of using his keys was a comfort to him, in this case his hands were rather occupied. 

The doors swung open. Bells chimed overhead as the door snapped shut behind him.

_Up the stairs._

Aziraphale took care to make sure Crowley’s feet didn’t get caught in the railing as he climbed the winding stairs. He had no concern over slipping on the steps due to his extra cargo. On many occasions he has carried tall stacks of books much heavier than Crowley up these stairs.

On the top floor, he walked through the circular hall to the door under the “E” cardinal sign.

_Into the bedroom._

The room welcomed the angel and demon. It was a rather spacious bedroom with a reading nook by a fireplace, a tall, antique wardrobe in the corner, and an oversized bed in a wooden Rococo bed frame.

The light summer sheets politely folded away as Aziraphale rested Crowley onto the plush mattress. He fluffed his pillow. Took his shoes off. Miracled him into more appropriate sleepwear. Tucked him in. Made sure Crowley was in a comfortable position. Fluffed his pillow again…

Aziraphale brow nestled together as he looked down at his friend. If one didn’t know better, it would seem Crowley was resting soundly. He appeared to be absolutely fine. No matter how you looked at it, there was nothing wrong with him. So why wouldn’t he wake up?

Aziraphale sat beside him, sinking into the blankets.

“Crowley?” He was hesitant. Outreached fingers hovered over Crowley’s shoulder, wavered, then took hold.

“Can you hear me?”

The room was silent but for the ticking of the regulator clock hanging on the wall and the faint hissing of Crowley’s slow breathing.

“Please wake up, dear…”

Crowley’s torso and head jostled with the light shaking of his body. His sleep continued undisturbed.

Aziraphale gave another, more urgent shake. Crowley’s eyes remained closed. He was right here. Aziraphale could feel him. Yet it felt like Crowley was so far away.

“I’ll get you back,” Aziraphale said, a bit of determination building up in his voice. “I’ll figure out what this is and fix it, don’t you worry.”

With one last look, Aziraphale left Crowley's bedside. The angel’s feet carried him down the stairs to the first place he always looked when he needed to find an answer.

* * *

_A.Z. Fell & Co., The Eastwing Bedroom  
21st day of August, in the year 2019_

One angelic hand was swiftly stirring sugar into his tea while the other turned a page.

Aziraphale sat in one of his armchairs, a heavy tome open in his lap. The once clean reading nook now filled with tall stacks of books like a city of skyscrapers built around him. Their topic ranged from demonology to basic divination. He even added the few books he had on herbs and their magical properties.

Two blue eyes dashed across each line, never leaving the page. The angel had little awareness outside of the words he rapidly consumed. He had forgotten about the little comforts he enjoyed during a good reading session, such as a bit of music and a burning fire. His tea, which he had made almost an hour ago, sat cold beside him. As he sat down with his book, he had added sugar to his cup. The book had immediately distracted him and he failed to notice that his hand had continued stirring, the metal spoon filling the room with a rhythmic chime.

The only other thing in the world that Aziraphale gave any attention was Crowley. 

There wasn’t much to notice in that regard. The demon continued to sleep. Once or twice he had stirred with which the blue eyes would finally leave the pages. He would watch, like a bird of prey, as the serpent burrowed deeper into the covers. The blankets would cease their rustling. After five seconds of silence passed, those eyes would once again bury themselves into letter-printed paper.

Time slipped past. After little success in his readings, Aziraphale slammed the final book of his current stack.

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale lied convincingly. “Everything’s going to be just fine… Oh!”

Aziraphale suddenly noticed his hand was still twirling his teaspoon. It shocked him. The spoon practically flew out of his hand, clattering to the floor. He sighed, rubbing his wrist.

“Oh bugger!”

He set the book amongst the others on the table, retrieved the spoon, and deflated at the sad sight of the cold cup of tea. A melancholy settled into his chest. He no longer wanted the tea. He didn’t want to sit down. Even the desire to read had left him.

“What am I even doing…” He wrung his hands for a moment before deciding to check on Crowley.

In his sleep, Crowley had entirely swaddled himself into the blankets. All that was visible of him was the crimson strands peaking out onto the white pillows. The sheets rose and fell at a slow pace and would flutter every so often.

Aziraphale rubbed up and down the mound, feeling an arm underneath. He hoped for a sign. A drowsy groan. The mound to uncoil into a long stretch. Half-lidded eyes to peek out at him, annoyed and not quite awake yet.

It was not to be. His friend continued his slumber with no awareness of the distressed angel at his side. Just as quickly as he lost interest in his books, Aziraphale couldn’t look at him. He turned away, staring at the floor, following the grains of wood like they held the answer.

“If you could just wake up for one moment. That’s all I need. Just one minute so you can tell me how you are feeling. Anything at all. Then I would— I would have something to _look_ for.”

He stared at his own hands, so small. The finger’s short and pudgy. Completely useless.

“You were fine. You were fine and now you’re not.” A drawn out sigh. “I must have missed something. I keep thinking about it. Maybe something happened to you in Heaven or—”

Azirphale swallowed a lump in his throat. He had been so keen to impress Crowley with his own tale from Hell. It was only now he realized that Crowley had glossed over his own experience. No details were provided. He had been so quick to divort the conversation elsewhere. Somewhere Aziraphale was happy to carry on at length…

“What were you not telling me?” Azirphale asked the unhearing lump. There was no answer. Probably never woul—

_Now stop that! You didn’t give up on the world that easily, now did you? You can do the same for Crowley! Now get up._

He forced himself to move. Tidying his teaset, he was about to leave to reheat his water when guilty eyes glanced over at Crowley. Fingers snapped and steaming water poured into his teacup. He was back to stirring sugarcubes into his drink as he searched for another book to start.

Aziraphale’s wrist swirled his tea to the beat of the wall clock as its ticking filled the quiet room. His mind continued to create theories. 

There were no signs of a curse or blessing on Crowley. It could have been some sort of poison or toxin. Perhaps a cleansing was in order, as unpleasant as those could be. Oh, a waking spell of some sort would be nice, but was it worth the risk when the underlying cause was unknown...

The stirring hand abruptly came to a stop. Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. At first he thought the room was just quiet, but now he was sure the clock was ticking much louder than before.

He turned to the clock hanging on the wall. His spoon dropped from his hand. For a second time, it clattered across the floor. Aziraphale didn’t take any notice.

It wasn’t the rocking of the pendulum he had been hearing. It was the hour hand. The minute hand pointed to the heavens, unwaverly. Meanwhile, the hour hand moved with an unnatural tick to each number instead of its usual, smooth rotation. The hand snapped in a stilted, spastic motion that filled Aziraphale’s gut with dread.

The ticking steadily grew in volume. Aziraphale stood. He moved closer to the clock, taking careful steps as though not to startle a wild animal.

He could feel it now. There was evil in the air that raised gooseflesh up his arms and down to his legs. A glimpse at the demon and, yes, he was curled deeper into the blankets, quivering. Aziraphale crept closer to him, keeping his eyes on the clock.

“Crowley?”

The hour hand once again reached midnight. With the next snap, Aziraphale stilled. His eyes grew wide. The roman numeral that had once read one was now the letter “A”. Another tick and the two transformed into an “N”. And then a “G”, then “E”, an “L”...

His breath hitched. “Crowley…”

With each toll, the clock grew ever louder.

“T”

“O”

“O”

“C”

It was so loud. Aziraphale’s hands clamped over his ears, but it still felt like the ticking was echoing in his skull.

“O”

“L”

Aziraphale barely noticed the “D” when the clock struck twelve and the chimes started to play.

An explosion of noise blasted through the room. His stacks of books collapsed. All the knickknacks and decorations on the shelves and mantel trembled. Every new note sent a strong wave that reverberated through the room, shaking even the furniture.

Aziraphale folded into himself. His hands gripped his ears, trying to block out the cacophony around him. The stroke of each chime scattered his thoughts. He couldn’t think.

It was a bomb. No, fireworks. Too much! Crowley on the ground. Satan. _“It was nice knowing you.”_ Hurts! Music. The phonograph. Downstairs. No! The clock. The words. Crowley. Crowley!

He pushed himself up. His knees shook. He had to stand. Couldn’t pull himself up. Ears needed to stay covered. Crowley was covered in blankets. Aziraphale bent over the edge. He couldn’t stand straight. His body crumpled into the sheets.

“Crowley!” He shouted over the chimes. He couldn’t even hear himself.

“You have to stop! Crowley! It’s too loud! I can’t— I—” The uproar only increased. It was too much. He couldn’t handle it anymore. 

Aziraphale whimpered, in a voice much too soft to hear over the bells, “It hurts…”

A scream cut through the commotion. Aziraphale looked up just in time to see the clock hurl itself across the room. It crashed into the opposing wall. Shards of wood, glass and metal clockwork shattered, exploding into a starburst across the floor.

All was quiet except for a constant ringing in Aziraphale’s ears. He stood, still shaky. He stumbled and caught himself with a hand on the bed. Panic gripped his chest but then he realized it was okay to uncover his ears. He let his other hand fall to his side.

With his foot, he pushed glass and metal gears away. Bending over, he searched through the wreckage. Under a mahogany board was the clock face, the iron machinations still screwed to its backside. He flipped it over. The words were gone. It was a normal clock face, the numerals circling the edge as they always had.

Something across the room clattered to the floor. Aziraphale nearly jumped out of his skin. He gasped for air, as though he needed to breath. Right. The noise. The scream. Crowley!

Aziraphale rushed over and knelt over the bed. The round mass was still.

“Crowley?”

He pulled down the sheets. His heart twisted.

Crowley’s eyes were barely open, staring into the bed unfocused. They were still entirely golden from corner to corner. He was so pale, his lips almost blue. Dark circles rimmed his eyes. His arms were wrapped over his chest, holding himself.

Aziraphale gently rolled him over. For a second, Crowley’s eyes met his before drifting back downward. His breathing was slow, shallow. Not that angels or demons needed to, but it was easier to let the corporation do what it wanted. And if one wasn’t well enough to miracle that need away, well, in those circumstances it was rather important.

It was then Aziraphale noticed how cold Crowley’s arm was. He rested a hand to his cheek and gasped at the icy skin underneath.

“Crowley! My dear, you’re freezing cold!”

Every part of Crowley’s skin was freezing to the touch. No wonder Crowley had burrowed himself into the blankets, the poor dear.

Aziraphale finally pulled away when Crowley hissed at him. It wasn’t a vicious hiss. There was barely any energy to it. Underneath his glazed eyes was enough distress to snap Aziraphale into action.

“Oh dear! How long have you been like this? No matter. I’ll have you right as rain in no time!”

The angel strode through the room with great deliberation. He miracled the fireplace with a fresh fire that heated the room. Over the fire hung a pot filled with glowing coals. Aziraphale stepped out of the room for only a short moment, returning with an old, copper warming pan. He dumped the hot coals inside, snapping with lid shut with a miracle that would also stave off any noxious odors. Pulling up the covers, he slipped this under the blankets at the far end of the bed.

Crowley was laying on his side watching him, or at least Azirphale assumed he must be. It was hard to tell as his eyes didn’t seem like they could keep up with his quick movements. He was so still. There was no shivering nor were his teeth chattering. 

It made Aziraphale uneasy. He was going to make a trip downstairs to collect his blankets, but one look at Crowley and guilt kept him rooted in place. A snap of his fingers and a basket filled with folded blankets appeared beside him.

“Let's get you bundled up…”

Layer upon layer of blankets wafted over the bed before settling on the demon. Azirphale topped it off with the patchwork quilt2 Crowley often mocked for being hideous while simultaneously drifting to sleep under its comforting weight. With that done, he tucked the demon in tightly, making sure the blankets held him snuggly all around.

Aziraphale gave himself a tepid smile at a job well done. He looked down at Crowley. Their eyes met.

There was no other expression on his face other than exhaustion. His head sunk into the mattress at a sharp angle. All his energy appeared to be spent on keeping his eyes steadily focused on Aziraphale. For the first time since the Ritz, Crowley tried to speak.

“Nnnatrrfllplldassss...”

Azirphale’s eyebrows shot up. He was a bit flustered, uncertain what to say to such befuddled mumbling.

Then his whole body froze.

Aziraphale had only experienced discorporation once before. It happened so recently, it felt like yesterday. No, it actually was yesterday, as a matter of fact. As his corporation lost its ability to function any further, he felt his heavenly spirit being pulled upward. There was no resisting the force once it decided to haul him back into Heaven. He could only allow himself to be ripped away from Earth when he was needed most.

For demons it was the opposite. Well, the same mechanics were involved but they departed in the opposite direction. In the exorcisms Aziraphale had witnessed, he had felt those demons sink into the Earth. They were dragged further and further downward until Aziraphale could sense them no longer. While angels soared to Heaven, demons fell into Hell.

The sinking feeling in Aziraphale’s gut wasn’t just him. He could feel it. Crowley, or the essence in him that made him Crowley, was starting to sink. Moving below his corporation, into the bed.

Crowley’s eyes rolled and closed. His face sunk further into the bed.

Aziraphale practically lept on him. Now lying on his back, Crowley’s whole body jostled as Aziraphale violently shook him.

“Crowley! Crowley, wake up!”

He didn’t wake. No amount of frantic movement seemed to affect Crowley. Azirphale grabbed his wrist, feeling for a pulse. It was barely there and didn’t feel regular. He rested his ear to his chest. His breath was slow. Shallow. Aziraphale’s own breath only picked up in pace.

“Stay with me!” he cried.

Dull, amber eyes fluttered open. His half lidded eyes stared at the ceiling a moment before falling closed once more. His soul was now under the bed.

“Come on, Crowley! Look at me!”

Aziraphale put as much strength as he could into rattling Crowley awake. His head tottered back and forth. A groan escaped his lips. Then, with a sigh, his body melted into the bed. Every part of him went lax. He was sinking further and further…

“No, no, no, no… Crowley?” Tears stung in Aziraphale’s eyes. “Come on! Stay with me! Oh no… oh no, I’m losing him…”

Aziraphale’s chest throbbed as he took panicked gasps. He let go, his fingers shaking and twitching in front of him. Something about the way they moved sparked an idea.

Aziraphale vigorously rubbed his hands together.

“I haven’t done this in quite some time. And only to humans. Don’t know if it will work. God, _please_ , let this work...”

With a prayer and a tear running down his cheek, he positioned his sparking hands over Crowley’s chest.

The smell of ozone filled the air. Lightning bolted through Crowley’s body. His chest heaved off the bed. His soul slammed up into his corporation as he crashed back into the sheets with a gasp.

Crowley was coughing, and gasping. Aziraphale had never seen anything so wonderful.

“There you are,” he sobbed, his voice hitching. He scooped the demon into his arms. Azirphale’s eyes were squeezed shut. Shoulders trembled as he tried to hold himself together. Crowley still felt cold, but he was here. He was here, oh bless him!

Crowley started to squirm in Aziraphale’s tight hold. Arms faintly smacked his shoulders. A hand gripped him for a moment before slipping off. Aziraphale’s heart ached at how weak his efforts were, but took the message. He pulled away from Crowley, though he couldn’t quite hold in the disappointed sigh.

His eyes met the golden eyes staring back at him. They were more lackluster than usual, a color more akin to wheat than topaz. The poor dear was panting, his jaw hanging open with an expression of bewilderment. Aziraphale kept his hand firmly to his back to keep him upright.

“Crowley…”

“What’r you doin’... onma ship?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Your- your ship? What?”

Crowley flung his arm in a wide ark, nearly hitting his own face in the process. It fell limply at his side. Eyes blinked slowly before sagging forward.

“Oh! Hold on, dear. I’ve got you.”

With a flick of the wrist, a tall pile of pillows appeared behind Crowley. Aziraphale gently leaned him back until he was able to lay upright and relaxed. His eyes flickered open again. It took a few seconds for them to find Aziraphale again.

“How d’you ge’ here… ‘ngel…”

Azirphale gave him a soft smile.

“I- oh, I think you must be confused.” He took a long breath, thinking of how to summarize all that had happened.

“I brought you to the bookshop, remember? You’ve had me quite worried, you know. We were at the Ritz and as we were about to leave you fell to the floor. I thought- well, that’s not important. I couldn’t wake you, so I had an ‘Ober’ called in to drive us hom- to the bookshop.”

Aziraphale’s fingers twisted together.

“I’ve been searching my books for what sort of curse or- or spell that would put you in this state. I haven’t found anything. There doesn’t even appear to be any magic or miracles on you whatsoever. And just now you started getting so cold and I… I thought- I couldn’t- You were…” 

He cleared his throat and blinked more times than needed. His hand lifted to Crowley’s cold cheek. His thumb tried to rub some warmth into him.

“Anyway, we’re not on some ship, as you said. We stopped Armegeddon together, fooled Heaven and Hell, and then had lunch at the Ritz before all… all this started. Remember?”

Aziraphale waited for some sort of answer or acknowledgement. But Crowley merely stared at him, dazed and blinking slowly. Aziraphale’s smile drooped.

“Oh, I doubt you’re even listening to me?”

Crowley’s eyes fell closed. “‘M listenin…,” he mumbled with a sigh. Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile a little.

“I know you are, dear.”

He let his hand fall from his cheek to his shoulder. At the same time, a violent shudder rippled through Crowley. A continuous tremor overtook his whole body. From his lips, a moan shook free.

Aziraphale squeezed his shoulder. “Right, let's get you warmed up.”

He rolled off the bed and started pulling the sheets. He made sure the blankets were up to Crowley’s neck and each layer was tucked tightly under him. As Aziraphale repositioned the warming plate, he had a wonderful idea.

“Maybe some tea would do you some good. I’ll be back in a mo’.” The angel gave the blankets one final pat before leaving the room.

While Aziraphale was accustomed to making tea the human way, today his kitchenette knew better than to dilly dally. All matter of kitchenware and ceramics flew about the room like those cartoon talkies Crowley enjoyed so much. In less than a minute Aziraphale picked up a fully loaded tea tray complete with hot, brewed chamomile, sugar cubes for Crowley, and a small plate of digestive biscuits.

“Well done.” Without delay, Aziraphale strood back to the bedroom.

The tray nearly slipped his fingers upon entering the eastern room. Aziraphale froze in the doorway, dumbfounded by the sight before him.

All the blankets he had carefully tucked around the demon had been pushed away. Said demon was wiggling and grunting at the predicament he had put himself in. His nightshirt was up over his head exposing his bare chest. While one arm had escaped its armhole, the other was stuck, his bent arm trying to force itself through the small hole. His free arm didn’t do much to help as it sluggishly tugged at the hem of his top. At the sound of a low whimper, Aziraphale finally snapped out of his shock.

“Crowley! What are you doing?!”

Aziraphale stormed to his bedside, nearly throwing the tea tray onto the side table before grappling the demon. He tugged the shirt above his head back down. His hand grazed Crowley’s skin. He was still so cold, still shivering. Why in the world would he take his clothes off when he was absolutely freezing?

Crowley started hissing and wiggling. 

“Nooo, ‘sss makin’ me cold,” he whined.

Despite Aziraphale’s efforts, the shirt kept getting more twisted around Crowley as he tugged away from Aziraphale. His free arm slapped listlessly at Aziraphale’s chest and arm. He tried to keep his frustration in check. He didn’t want to hurt Crowely, but at this rate Crowley would end up hurting himself.

Aziraphale grabbed his shoulders and shouted, “Crowley, please! Stop squirming! Just let me take care of you.”

His voice pettered off, regret quickly taking hold. Even if Crowley ceased his resistance, there was no reason to yell at a sick person. Aziraphale brushed back the strands of hair sticking to Crowley’s forehead. He had worked himself up into a sweat, which would only make him colder. With the next stroke of his hand, Crowley was completely dry.

Aziraphale looked into Crowley’s eyes and they were so still. His stare was completely focused on Aziraphale, the most lucid he has been since his fall.

“You need to trust me, okay?”

“...always.”

Aziraphale gasped. The honesty in Crowley’s voice rushed through his body settling in his chest. He barely had time to process it all before Crowley listed forward. Aziraphale caught him, holding him close. All strength drained from Crowley’s body, his corporation turning languid in his arms. Azirphale worried he would drift off again before he could properly tend to him.

“Hold on just a little longer, alright? I have some tea for you.”

First, Aziraphale did away with that mess of a nightshirt with a miracle replacing it with fuzzy, footed pyjamas covered in yellow ducks. Thankfully, Crowley wasn’t awake enough to scold him. He manuevered the two of them so he could pour them tea while still holding Crowley.

“Here you are, dear.”

He tried to hand Crowley the tea cup. His hands reached for it, but his fingers remained limp. The tea nearly spilled from Crowley punching the cup instead of grabbing it. Aziraphale steadied the tea in the cup.

“Here, let me…”

Aziraphale adjusted his hold allowing Crowley’s head to roll back a bit. His eyes were closed. When Aziraphale combed his fingers through Crowley’s hair, massaging the scalp, one eye cracked open. The corner of Aziraphale’s mouth tugged, glad to see his friend was still with him.

He pressed the cup to Crowley’s lips which parted obediently. Crowley took too deep of a sip at first, coughing a moment. Once he stilled again, Aziraphale helped him drink the rest, taking more care in how much he let Crowley drink.

Crowley was completely lax against Aziraphale now. The last bit of tea ended up dripping back into the cup. Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s breathing growing slower and more even as his shivers only came in waves now. 

Aziraphale took a moment to drink his own tea in the moment of calm, feeling Crowley’s weight against him as his chest filled with air and his heart continued beating. Despite it all, a sickening feeling of distress started to bubble up in Aziraphale’s stomach, but he held it down. There was plenty of time to deal with that later. Tending to Crowley came first.

Moving some of the pillows aside, he eased him into the bed. Aziraphale smiled down at him before turning to the side table. He set the tea cup down and replaced the lid on the sugar bowl.

Without warning, arms wrapped around Aziraphale’s middle and yanked him backwards. 

“Ah- Crowley?!”

He crashed into the bed. His arms were pinned to his sides. Aziraphale squeeked as the grip hugged him tight. He was utterly trapped. 

Behind him, he could feel Crowley pressed flush against him. Heat began to rise up to his cheekbones. Then a sliver of a tongue flickered against his neck. He would have jumped out of the bed if he could but only managed a startled wiggle.

“Crowley? You’re, um… This is a tad inconvenient. If I could…”

Azirphale twisted until one hand managed to grab hold of Crowley’s arm. The moment he tried to untangle himself, a loud hiss erupted behind him. The arms tightened considerably. Aziraphale squeeked as all the air in his lungs was squeezed out of him. His hand lost its grip. The hiss faded to silence. Behind him, he could feel Crowley’s head nestling into his back.

“Waaarm,” Crowley moaned.

Ah.

“Yes, well, I suppose you’re right.” Aziraphale’s heart was hammering in his chest, but couldn’t deny the reality of the situation. Crowley was dangerously cold and warming him up was his highest priority. However, if heaven knew…

Aziraphale flinched. He was on his own now. There were no more excuses. Whatever choices he made now were his and his alone.

He sighed. A miracle changed him into something more comfortable, leaving his usual attire folded on the armchair. His legs were still draped over the side so he twisted around to make himself more comfortable.

Crowley didn’t like that. His muscles tightened around him, but the poor dear was growing weaker by the second. Losing his hold of Aziraphale, Crowley groaned.

“Just a tick,” Azirphale said in a soothing tone. “Let me… just- get this blanket.”

Aziraphale pulled the covers over the two of them. Now lying face to face, Aziraphale snuck one arm under Crowley’s head and draped the other over his waist. Crowley wasted no time wrapping himself around Aziraphale once again. Arms and legs alike encircled him. Crowley pressed as much of his body as he could against Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale knew this wasn’t a loving gesture. Any creature that was cold to the point of freezing would huddle to the warmest object they could find. Crowley was a serpent at heart with the instinct to coil his body around his prey. This wasn’t romantic.

So if Aziraphale felt consumed with affection and comfort, it was from the joy of being able to help a friend. 

If his hand rubbed lovingly up and down his back, it was all in order to share some of his heat with his touch. 

And if the demon sank deeper into his embrace with a content sigh, it was the relief of the sick and dreary receiving a bit of salvation from an angel. That… that’s all it was.

“Rest now, Crowley. I’ll keep you warm.”

Aziraphale didn’t move, all of his senses attuned to Crowley. He patiently kept vigel over him as he felt every muscle in Crowley’s body relax, his shivering coming to a rest. Under his hand, heat began to rise off Crowley’s skin as he naturally grew warmer. Against his collarbone, he felt the tickle of eyelashes quivering as Crowley dreamed.

There wasn’t enough time for Aziraphale to notice the demonic miracle cascaded from Crowley. He suddenly found he couldn’t keep his eyes open. A dark tarp draped over his mind, quieting his thoughts. He felt so warm and safe in his love’s arms, this did not alarm him as it normally would. 

Aziraphale embraced the darkness and fell asleep.

* * *

_Constantinople  
This 5th day of June in the year of our Lord, 1191_

Aziraphale crossed through the portcullis into Constantinople. It was bright and beautiful (it wasn’t burning). There were sculptures and mosaics, but they were blurry and out of focus. He knew this city well. He walked the streets, passed through the agora, yet couldn’t remember the journey he took.

He followed the delightful smell of sweet custard with a fishy hint of garum and warm honey. He followed the feeling of burning sulfer and the temptation to know more (to know too much).

Crowley and Aziraphale sat at a table. He could see it clearly, watching the two from a distance. The sound of a violin played through the streets. They drank, talked and smiled. They looked happy. 

It was wrong, yet it felt so normal. Of course there were two of him. There was nothing strange about that. 

One Aziraphale spoke animatedly with Crowley. The other observed.

“Well, it’s mostly a love story, to be frank,” Aziraphale said. “Wh-”

Crowley cuts him off. “I wouldn’t care about that, being a demon and all.”

The observer frowned.

Crowley… wouldn’t say that, right? It was true which… was why he didn’t say that. Or wouldn’t say that, normally. He would lie, because that’s what demons do. But…

“You do care…” the observer said.

They didn’t hear him. 

A sudden flurry of motion. People moved in a blur. Food came and disappeared. Voices spoke too fast to hear.

Then it all… stopped. Everything froze. The people stopped where they stood. Silence fell on the city. 

_“...’time, whom the heavenly bodies obey to one iota of a second_ -’”

“Bit contradictory, this poet of yours,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale flipped through his pages. “Perhaps, but it is thought provoking.”

“It is indeed…” the observer said to himself. There was something trying to press to the forefront of his mind. The thought slipped away. Well, he would think about it later. Time will wait.

The world tilted. People swirling. Sounds whirling. It all froze again at the sound of a breath.

_“‘Every rose will fade and wither, no matter though it once was fair. The dry rose falls within the garden, a new rose arises there.’”_

Aziraphale didn’t see. He was too engrossed with his manuscript. But the observer witnessed all.

Crowley’s face looked haunted. His whole body was tense. There was no movement. His framed eyes moved the slightest fraction, looking up at Aziraphale. The tension eased, but only slightly. Shoulders slumped. His expression shifted to one the observer knew too well. It was one the observer saw everytime he looked up from his meal.

The observer understood but could not understand. It was a rather benign poem. Why had it stirred Crowley so much?

Crowley jumped from his seat. He mumbled an excuse and left with the wind of people.

Something was off. It was wrong. And whenever something was wrong, Aziraphale’s first instinct was to assume it was him.

The observer parted his lips to speak. As he did, Aziraphale spoke with him in chorus.

“What did I do wrong?”

“What did he do wrong?”

A sharp intake of breath passed through his lips. The observer spun around, scrutinizing his double.

The way his own face stared back at him made his stomach turn. The other angel beamed with the widest, most patronizing grin. It was the kind of ‘holier than thou’ look Gabriel often gave him. Except Aziraphale was the one wearing it. It was revolting.

He was revolting.

* * *

_A.Z. Fell & Co., The Eastwing Bedroom  
21st?? day of August, in the year 2019_

His eyes were heavy. He felt heavy. And warm. There was a calling to let the heaviness overtake him. To leave his eyes closed and rest.

Which was not like Aziraphale, was it? He never rests. Rest was for the wicked, afterall. It would take up time he would rather use for reading the new manuscript he acquired in Georgia…

His eyes blinked open. His head rested on a white pillow that faded to red. His bed was… modern. Mostly modern. Crowley would certainly object. But it was grounding. This wasn’t the sort of furnishings you would find in 12th century Rome. And over there were a pair of sunglasses next to his tea set. Of course, this was his bookshop. 21st century, specifically.

Aziraphale blinked slowly. 

“Did I… time travel?” he mumbled in a groggy voice.

Normally such a thought would be preposterous, but it would explain the odd experience. As of yet, it was a tad difficult to consider anything more complex.

He let his eyes sag a bit, thinking it all over. Watching himself from the outside had been… strange. That wasn’t normal right? Then there was the whole time moving up and down, a time travel side effect perhaps? Quite understandable for such a precarious miracle. He didn’t much like how quiet it ended up with everyone around them frozen in place. The music had been lovely to listen to…

His brow furrowed. “Rome didn’t have fiddles in the 12th century...”

Aziraphale suddenly sat upright. He gave a dramatic gasp, the kind he would give at a plot twist in an enticing play.

“It was a dream! I was dreaming! Oh, my lord, that was… that was dreadful! How do you stand going through that every night, Crowley?”

His heart thudded against his chest as he finally registered who he was in bed with.

Despite Aziraphale’s swift movements and exclamations, Crowley was unperturbed. His chest rose and fell at long interludes. There was still evidence of their previous embrace. One hand rested on Aziraphale’s belly, very close to falling off. Their legs were very much tangled together as though they had been weaved together with knitting needles.

Aziraphale’s cheeks were about the color of Crowley’s hair but that wasn’t important now. The events of before came flooding back and Aziraphale was hovering over him. He was checking his forehead, his cheeks, his neck. He let out the breath he had been holding in.

“Oh good. That’s good. Yes, much better.”

Crowley was much warmer. Not quite to his usual temperature and some parts of him, like his nose, fingers and toes, still felt cold, but it was a remarkable improvement. 

He let a finger tuck away a stray strand of hair. “Crowley? Are you there?”

His question was left unanswered. The demon continued his deep sleep, unaware of the angel watching over him. He smiled down at the relaxed face, all wrinkles smoothed over with the calm of rest.

“Take all the time you need,” the angel said. “I’ll be right here.”

* * *

_A.Z. Fell & Co., The Eastwing Bedroom  
22nd day of August, in the year 2019_

“It says here you had hypothermia.”

Aziraphale was pacing the room. He held a book titled “Basic Pathology” in one hand and an eclair in the other. He had long given up on the books of the occult, finding no evidence of Crowley being under the influence of a demonic or angelic spell.

He continued his monologue still chewing on his pastry.

“There was the loss of consciousness, of course. Cold temperature, weak pulse, lack of coordination, confusion. You did seem to think you were on a ship and started… started undressing yourself…”

Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“Shivering. It says here that your lack of shivering at the start was a sign you were in critical condition… oh, dear.”

Aziraphale glanced quickly over to Crowley.

“Yes, let’s not… let's not dwell on that. Hmm..”

He flipped over a page. Miraculously, not a single crumb fell on the paper.

“Some possible causes… cold weather. No, it's been a dreadfully hot summer, even when the world was ending and all that raining fish. Cold water… no, I was the only one taking a cold bath. Although… I was wearing his body at the time… could it have… what if the switch had, had permanent ramifications...”

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks. His eyes remained on Crowley for a long time, half seeing and half thinking. When he felt his lower lip begin to tremble, he tightened his jaw, giving his head a shake.

“No. No, I’m just overthinking this. Everything will sort itself out. Just... give it some time.”

His book snapped shut. Stuffing the rest of the eclair in his mouth, he walked to the bed and pulled out the warming pan.

“Nee’s mo’ coal…” Aziraphale said as he carried the pan to the fire.

* * *

_A.Z. Fell & Co., The Eastwing Bedroom  
23rd day of August, 2019_

For the past ten minutes, Aziraphale had been standing still bent over a table staring at a thermometer. The red mercury inside had stopped moving some time ago, but he gave it a few more minutes just to be sure. But the red liquid didn’t climb up the number scale at all. He straightened himself out, deeply satisfied.

“There! Precisely 30 degrees, the optimal climate for a snake habitat!”

Aziraphale grinned over to Crowley, plainly proud of his success. Crowley continued to hiss softly in his sleep. 

Undeterred by his lack of audience, Aziraphale took a seat at the edge of the bed. He picked up the book on the side table and flipped through it. The cover read “Herpetology”. The book dated back to 1858 and had the most exquisite drawings of various species of snake, including one that had an uncanny resemblance to Crowley. First edition, of course.

“Did you know snakes become lethargic in colder weather? I mean, you must know, obviously, but it does explain a lot. I always assumed you were just lazing about. It didn’t occur to me that simply raising the temperature could have roused you from your stupor.”

Aziraphale kept himself buried in his book, refusing to look over at his unmoving friend.

“I’ve brought up the humidity as well. Only in this room, mind you. The moisture would be terrible for my books.”

Even as he spoke, his gaze remained focused on the words. But his eyes stayed fixed in one spot, never moving down from where they looked. He flipped a page.

“This will fix you right up! You’ll be up and about soon. And then we can go out for dinner. I picked up the bill last time, so you owe me. We can dine at the Ritz again, and… the Ritz where… where it wasn’t cold at all, was it?”

Aziraphale worried the corner of the page, not noticing the crease that was starting to form.

“Doesn’t really explain why you got sick in the first place…”

Aziraphale looked over at the clock on the wall and then remembered the clock wasn’t there anymore. He sniffed, blinking rapidly.

“Maybe I’m not doing this right. There must be something I haven’t tried yet. Let's see...”

Aziraphale closed the book and added it to the tall ‘read’ pile. He inspected his remaining books from top to bottom, but there weren't any promising titles remaining. There was the rest of the bookshop, but frankly his nonfiction collection wasn’t very extensive…

Sinking into a chair, he stared out into the distance still not looking over at Crowley. As though on rerun, their last meal at the Ritz played through his mind again. Their toast to the world, Crowley’s open smile, those eyes hidden behind dark shades never looking away through the entire meal.

Then Crowley started to act tired. He had yawned and… he smacked his watch. Aziraphale frowned, only now recalling how unusual the moment had been. But now the gears in his mind were turning and he was starting to feel out the shapes where the puzzle pieces fit.

Aziraphale looked in the wardrobe where he had miracled Crowley’s clothing. In a drawer he found the ridiculous watch. Looking at it, the watch did what it always did. The different strips of numbers whirred around in the chaotic fashion that was somehow logical to Crowley. Even so, were they all supposed to be moving so quickly at the same time?

Straightening his back, he looked over at the pile of his ruined clock. No miracle Aziraphale tried would fix it. He could only sweep it into the corner to worry about later. The clock face held it’s latin numerals, but Aziraphale remembered when they had transformed into the message that helped save Crowley’s life. 

Then there was the song in the car, the bizarre dream he could only faintly remember now, and at the airstrip…

“You stopped time!” Aziraphale proclaimed to the room. There was no one to hear, but this didn’t stop his widening grin. 

Walking to Crowley’s side, he exclaimed, “Oh, Crowley! You were telling me what was going on the entire time, weren’t you? Such a clever boy, I could kiss you ri-”

Aziraphale stuttered before looking away bashfully. With one more quick smile, he left the room with more purpose in each step.

* * *

_The Eastwing Bedroom  
24th August, 2019_

“Crowley! Stopping time is entirely impossible!”

Aziraphale was in his armchair by the fireplace. There was a new mountain of books by him. Some were more angelic in nature but contained topics of spiritual metaphysics. Others were books on human physics along with astronomy and quantum mechanics. 

These weren’t from Aziraphale’s personal collection. However, popping over to water Crowley's plants, he saw a small shelf of books in the office. He took everything back to the bookshop with him, shelf included.

The shelf now sat by Aziraphale’s seat, every book within it already taken and read through. He didn’t understand it all, but he didn’t need to. His fingers had flipped speedily through the pages only focusing on any mentions of time.

The result of all this research was merely a very disgruntled angel.

“It can’t be done! There is no feasible way to do it,” Aziraphale said. “For one, time is completely outside our domain. Perhaps it was possible before time existed, but once God started the flow of time, She promised time would continue for all eternity. There is no one who can stop it except for Her!”

He gave a sharp wave at the more modern books. “Even humans have come to this conclusion. All their sciences agree with this. The only exception I could find is in the middle of a blackhole, but does it look like we’re in a blackhole, Crowley?!”

Aziraphale suddenly found himself standing, having worked himself into a frenzy. Despite his uproar, Crowley continued to sleep soundly, not a care in the world.

Aziraphale’s heart ached. All of the fight spilled out of him. His shoulders sagging, he took a seat beside Crowley. The mattress sank down, Crowley’s body rolling with it. His eyes remained closed.

“Oh, my dear, what have you done?”

Gentle fingers swept away some strands of hair sticking to his forehead. His hair was a tad moist due to the humidity of the room. Heat had started radiating from him giving Aziraphale some relief in this impossible situation.

As his hand continued to draw lines across Crowley’s face. Aziraphale relived the moments at the end of the world and the time after it didn’t end. Crowley’s ashen face looking up from the ground. Aziraphale raised a flaming sword towards his friend.

_COME UP with something or - or I’ll never talk to you again._

Clinking champagne flutes in the Ritz. Crowley slumped in his chair, giving a yawn while Aziraphale made plans for the evening.

_Are you alright, dear?_

_Mmm… yeah._

“Oh, this is all my fault. I should have paid better attention. I was so fixated on my own problems I didn’t even notice how strained you were. You went through so much and I never once thought of how draining it must have all been.”

Aziraphale’s thumb was now rubbing circles into Crowley’s blanketed shoulder. Remorse began to leak and run through him, settling into the pit of his stomach. 

But no matter how much he regretted his ignorance, it would do nothing to wake Crowley. He should keep researching. The answer had to be somewhere. So why did simply standing feel like moving through a pool of honey?

“I’ll get some more wood for the fire…” Aziraphale said as he trudged away from the bed.

* * *

_Eastwing Bedroom  
25 Aug ‘19_

The only sound in the bedroom was the sound of crackling from the fireplace.

Aziraphale sat on the edge of the bed, his back to Crowley. It had been over an hour since the angel had sat down. He had yet to move. His eyes were downcast, staring at his own hands. He didn’t want to look at the books. It had been five days. And over all that time not a single book had given him the answers he needed.

Nothing he had tried had worked. There was nothing left he could do. All there was now was keeping the room warm and checking Crowley’s health. 

It was hard to look at him as well. A growing fear gnawed inside Aziraphale that this was how everyday was going to be. What would he do if Crowley never woke again?

A sudden wave of fury swept Aziraphale to his feet. He started grabbing his books, taking as many his arms could carry. He just needed them away, out of his sight so he could think.

He had fully intended to take them downstairs and put them back where they belonged. That’s what he should have done. Instead, his feet froze at the staircase landing. A book in hand, he hurled the tome down the stairs.

“You’re worthless!” he shouted. “You haven’t done anything to help! Everything in your pages is meaningless! Useless!”

Aziraphale went back and forth, grabbing more books and throwing them down to the first floor. His movements grew more frantic.

“Adam should have left you burnt! You should be thrown out in the trashheap for all the good you’ve done!”

Aziraphale fell to his knees at the stairs. Books were now tossed at longer and longer intervals, most not making it down all the steps.

“You know how much time I wasted on you? I kept reading and reading, and for what? I should have spent that time with Crowley! I had all that time and now… and now… I don’t know how much time is left…”

Glassy eyes looked down at the damaged books scattered across his bookshop. The sight should be heartbreaking, or fill him with anger at himself or something. But he only felt tired. There wasn’t much in him to feel any more than he already felt.

A sob broke out of his chest. “I’m completely powerless... I’ve tried everything I can, I only… Why am I so worthless?”

Aziraphale’s body slumped against the railing, his shoulders shaking as he wept.

* * *

_The Bedroom  
Still August..._

Outside the bedroom window, London carried on as usual. Cars drove down the street. People walked through Soho, visiting shops, eating at restaurants and carrying on with their day. Groups of humans circled together, talking and laughing with each other. The sun was out and the weather, for once, was wonderful.

Aziraphale couldn’t understand it. He had been looking out the window—how long has it been?—and it didn’t make sense to him.

A week ago the world was ending. A week ago there was chaos and terror worldwide. A week ago Aziraphale and Crowley did everything possible to make sure the world carried on, for the future outside his window.

So why did it appear so foreign to Aziraphale? How had life continued out there when in these walls Aziraphale’s world was coming to an end? Was this their true punishment? For saving the Earth their lives would be destroyed anyway?

Aziraphale turned away.

As car horns blared, Aziraphale threw more wood on the fire. As pedestrians narrowly missed being hit while walking with their phones out, Aziraphale remade the bed, refreshing the sheets and pillows with a thoughtless wave. As childhood friends hugged each other, Aziraphale checked Crowley’s temperature, pulse, and rolled him over as his books had suggested.

He looked down at Crowley’s sleeping form. For the first time that day, Aziraphale’s blank expression broke. His lower lip wobbled. His hand trembled as he combed through flushed red hair.

A cracked voice whispered, “Please wake up. Just open your eyes and look at me. Please...”

* * *

_…_

“I don’t know what to do anymore.” 

All around Aziraphale, as was before, are books stacked in hazardous piles, though now they were piled around the bed. Not one of them had been cracked open.

He had thought of renewing his search for a treatment or cure. He miracled all the books here, not having the heart to see the mess he made of the bookshop days before. But he no longer had any desire to read them.

The days were bleeding into each other. He wasn’t even sure how long they had been in this room. In many ways, it felt as though he had always been here. All his days were spent consumed with Crowley’s care and any other life he had had felt like a distant past.

“All I can do is sit and wait. Not much help, am I.”

Aziraphale made a humourless chuckle. Wasn’t he always the on who sat and waited until Crowley came to fix everything? With a few words and raised eyebrows, he could compel the demon to take action for him.

In reality, there were other moments where the opposite was true. Moments when Aziraphale saved Crowley from a sticky situation, usually one the demon had put himself in. But those memories didn’t come to Aziraphale’s mind. It was all the easier to recall the moments that further justified his guilt than contradicted it.

“Some things never change, I suppose.”

Aziraphale rolled over, putting his back to the books and watched Crowley sleep.

* * *

Aziraphale had slept.

He hadn’t meant to. Even when he laid beside Crowley, he had intended to keep a night vigil over him. The even rhythm of Crowley’s breathing had calmed him. His mind wandered, taking him through the history of all the various nights, and sometimes days, he had guarded over his sleeping companion.

Then Aziraphale opened his eyes and it was morning.

His corporation forced a yawn from him, which was alarming enough to fully wake him. He blinked. It was a tad offputting to close one’s eyes to the dark to open them again to rays of sunlight. His body felt heavy and stiff as he wrenched himself up. That’s when his eyes settled on the large mound under the blankets beside him.

The first thing Aziraphale noticed was that, after a full week, Crowley had finally moved. Crowley had rolled onto his side at some point in the night. He was still asleep, face lax and lips parted with an arm stretched out towards Aziraphale. 

Had he awakened? Reached out to the angel before being pulled back into his dreams? Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile fondly at the thought.

A once manicured hand with nails now angular and cracked, hesitantly stretched across the sheets. Aziraphale rested his hand on Crowley’s. His fingers curled around the long, lithe ones. Crowley’s hand was pliable under his grip. The skin was warm and a bit moist, a sign that the “habitat” Aziraphale had made was working.

“Can you hear me, Crowley?”

Silence stretched lazily across the room.

Right. Of course. Crowley wasn’t _here,_ not in the way Aziraphale needed. 

Perhaps it was a bout of daring, or a moment of desperation, that spurred him to act. Aziraphale dragged himself across the bed. He never let go of the hand -- not even as he pressed their bodies together and cradled Crowley’s head to his chest. He could hear his own heart pounding in his ear. Had he been awake, there was no doubt in Aziraphale’s mind that Crowley would hear the rataplan of his heart too. 

Aziraphale clung to him, unable to let go.

He shouldn’t be doing this. Crowley surely would not be comfortable with this and he had no means to voice it. But Aziraphale needed to feel him, needed to know he was here. He ached for him. Every touch felt like a salve to the burning hollowness deep inside him. He pressed his lips into that fiery hair -- not really kissing, but resting his mouth there.

Into those strands, Aziraphale whispered, “You know I love you, don’t you? I’m about to lose my mind, I love you so much.”

* * *

Aziraphale didn’t move. Even as the sun tracked across the sky, sunspots coming through the window drifting slowly through the room, all remained still. Half-lidded, grey eyes were open but they did not see. All his attention was devoted to the heated body in his embrace.

Crowley was heavy in his arms despite his thin frame. Heated puffs of breath tickled Aziraphale’s collarbone. 

When the sunlight had reached the third bookshelf from the northern wall, Crowley had shifted his legs, entwining them with Aziraphale’s. The warmth of the body encircling Aziraphale grounded him. It quieted his mind--kept his dyspectic thoughts at bay.

As the sunlight’s glow dulled with the pitter-patter of rain, Crowley’s hands fisted into Aziraphale’s vest. A muffled moan escaped his lips. Aziraphale pulled back, fingers running through his hair as he tried to calm the demon. He was panting. Red eyebrows furrowed tightly under a sweaty forehead.

“Shh… You’re alright, my dear. I’m here.”

Aziraphale kept petting his head. Then his hand stilled abruptly. A wave of wrongness—of something demonic—swept over him. He waited, listening intently for the effect of the miracle. Seconds drifted by in silence with no change. Unease started to build as Aziraphale considered giving the bookshop a once over.

Then his stomach started to burn.

Aziraphale yelped. He tumbled out of the bed. His back slammed against the floor. He stood on his knees. Fingers grappled at his vest. Without thinking, he ripped it open, buttons flying in every which way. He threw off the vest. The seering pain disappeared in an instant.

Aziraphale took a moment to catch his breath. He had reacted so quickly he wasn’t quite sure what had happened. The rumpled vest on the floor looked unassuming all the same. When he saw the popped off buttons, a voice played in his head.

_You could miracle it away._

_Yes, but I’d always know the stain was there. Underneath, I mean._

_…_

_Oh! Thank you._

Aziraphale spared a glance at the sleeping demon and deflated. Coming to terms that he would have to hire a talor to fix the buttons, he picked the vest off the floor.

From the pocket dripped, well, his pocket watch. The liquid metal poured at a sluggish pace down the velvet fabric. Pieces of gears and other clockwork followed the slow downward stream. Mouth agape, Aziraphale watched the molten gold drip to the floor in dismay.

“I got that watch in Versailles!”

Agitated, he crumpled the garment and left for the kitchen to wash the gold off, as futile as he knew it would be. All the while he grumbled, “Devilish serpent, ruining my clothing… Thought I needed a wardrobe change, did he? Vile, obnoxious demon… But really! Must his grivoiserie involve my pocket watch?”

As frustrated as Aziraphale was, as much as he furiously brushed the vest with no improvement, he wasn’t slow. His mind was already at work trying to solve the riddle Crowley had left for him. 

Like the car radio—which he preferred not to think about—and the wall clock, there was some sort of hidden message. For a moment, he peered into the saturated velvet as though he could read from it like tea leaves.

“What are you trying to tell me? It’s not that you’re breaking? No, no that can’t be right. It can’t. Let’s see… Oh! Melting! You’re melting, er, hot.”

At this realization he, quite in the literal fashion, dropped everything and rushed to Crowley. Upon entering the bedroom, he found said demon in the same place, but gold, tired eyes looked at him from the sheets. A wobbly hand lifted minutely to point at him.

“Wapen tur wa…,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale’s breath stopped. He hadn't seen those eyes in so long. He could hardly picture anything in the world more resplendent.

Without a thought, Aziraphale was already across the room by Crowley’s side. He scooped up the shaky, outstretched hand while his other hand cradled Crowley’s cheek.

“I'm here, Crowley. I know. I'm going to take care of you.” His hand pushed up the damp hair sticking to his brow. “Yes, I think you're a touch too warm, dear, even for a serpent. Let's get some of these layers off…”

Aziraphale pulled off the quilts, then the duvets, then the blankets. Crowley blinked slowly at him. With each blink his eyes opened less and less. 

Aziraphale was too busy with his task to notice. The warming plate was promptly removed. With a snap, the fireplace that had burned like a newly made fire for a solid week aged into glowing embers close to going out. Crowley’s nightwear also changed into lighter fabric of the same pattern.

“There you are.”

Squaring his shoulders at a job well done, he turned back to Crowley to find the demon had once again fallen asleep. His shoulders slumped. 

Aziraphale couldn't help but be a tad disappointed he didn't get more time to speak with his friend. Even if Crowley wasn't well enough to hold a conversation, just seeing his eyes looking back at him—knowing Crowley was aware enough to see him, know they were together—brought him some peace of mind. Crowley hadn't been here for long, but Aziraphale held faith that his brief waking was a sign that he was getting better. The angel could be patient for a little longer.

 _Yes, everything will work out,_ Aziraphale thought as he wrung his hands behind his back. Rocking on his toes for a moment, he decided he felt calm enough to settle in with a book. He fluttered around his bookshelves, scouring the titles while always keeping one eye on Crowley. 

* * *

As Crowley slept, Aziraphale used it as an opportunity to read the type of books he normally didn’t read in Crowley’s company.

Despite other’s perceptions of Aziraphale’s antiguity, he did occasionally read modern novels. Not that he was trying to hide a dark secret from Crowley. In all honesty, he found Crowley’s presumption of Aziraphale’s ignorance to modern literature too amusing to spoil quite yet. Though he did hope the dear boy would one day question how Aziraphale acquired so many personally signed first editions by the most renowned authors of their time when he only saw Aziraphale read such books after their deaths. It was in the demon’s nature to question such inconsistancies, after all.

At the moment, the angel was happily curled around his copy of _“The God of Small Things”,_ sipping his tea and glancing at Crowley every so often. And if one of Aziraphale’s hands had drifted to comb through the demon’s hair, that was of little consequence.

Even in his sleep, Crowley often distracted the angel from his reading. While normally this would serve to irritate Aziraphale, the distractions were now a comfort to him.

Crowley’s sleep was more restless than before. While the sheen of sweat had thankfully disappeared, he was moving about with more vigor. Aziraphale believed that Crowley was inching ever closer to the waking world than the realm of his dreams.

So, for the only time in his life he was thankful Crowley would never see, he warmly accepted the occasional kick at his shin or smack of Crowley’s hand. A smile tugged at him with each moment of touch, which he would swear to any observers was from the particular passage he was reading.

Aziraphale eased further into the pillows. The tension in his neck loosened. He found himself being absorbed into his book rather than going over the words out of habit. Some parts he even read out loud to enjoy the feel of the words on his lips. Hope was settling into the angel as time passed. He was more calm than he had been since the incident at the Ritz. A smale smile played at his lips and he hummed a little tune with each page turn.

It was as he turned the page to a new chapter that Aziraphale’s hum was cut off by Crowley’s laughter.

The page nearly ripped as the startling sound made Aziraphale’s hand jump. Beside him Crowley was holding his stomach, letting out a boisterous laugh. He only caught a glimpse of his yellow eyes before Crowley rolled onto his back in apparent mirth.

Aziraphale has heard many of Crowley’s laughs. They were often his favourite memories and he revisited them quite frequently. There was the short barking laugh, usually from the joy of someone’s (minor) misfortune. There was the mischievous giggle, which the demon would absolutely deny was a giggle, when he had come up with a devilish scheme. But, by far his favourite, was the carefree laugh that was often shared over drinks in the bookshop.

This wasn’t like Crowley’s other laughs. There was something shrill and tense to it. The sound was almost manic.

This alarmed Aziraphale more than anything. All his placidity vanished, but he still held on to some hope that maybe it was a dream. Or a nightmare. It would be alright. He could fix this.

“Crowley? What’s wrong?”

When Aziraphale first reached for him, his hand was smacked away. Crowley’s arm stayed upright but faltered as his laughter grew more breathless.

“Dear, please.”

Aziraphale grabbed hold of him and nearly let go again in shock. Crowley was hot. Extremely hot. A heat much greater than any human could be without bursting into flames.

All the remaining sheets were ripped off the bed in a single pull. Aziraphale’s hands roamed over Crowley’s skin. Every exposed part of him was nearly as red as his hair. There was no sweat, whether because he had stopped sweating or it had evaporated from the heat Aziraphale didn’t know. His laugh had now evolved into an equally loud gasp. His eyes remained shut, showing no signs of consciousness.

Aziraphale’s thoughts were in a whirlwind. He was panicked and scared, his hands shaking. He felt dread and guilt that this was all his fault. His fear of Crowley discorporating from the cold may well have led him to be the agent of Crowley’s actual discorporation. 

He felt out of his league. It was clear how inept Aziraphale was if this was what his _care_ had done to Crowley. 

He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know, but he had to do something.

At the snap of a finger, ice cubes rained down on every surface of the room. The fireplace sizzled but reluctantly continued burning. The cup of already cold tea spilled and overflowed. Ice cubes bounced off the bookshelves but mysteriously avoided any books.

It wasn’t long until every inch of the bed had a layer of ice. Aziraphale’s body was pummeled by the hard cubes but he didn’t care. His eyes were trained on Crowley. His skin remained flush while his gasps grew more shallow.

“Come on, Crowley. Just hang on… You’ll be cooled off soon…”

The ice wasn’t working. Aziraphale tried gathering it all around Crowley’s body, but it boiled and steamed before evaporating entirely. 

He didn’t give up. Ice continued to rain down and Aziraphale piled it on top of the burning body. It was when the ice stopped boiling away and only melted into a puddle that Aziraphale felt some hope. He looked up to see how Crowley was doing.

Crowley wasn’t breathing.

Under the sound of falling ice, those weak gasps had died out. His mouth hung ajar, his body limp and melting into the mattress with the rest of the ice.

It was then that Aziraphale felt it. Crowley was falling. Untethered from his corporation, the damned soul was being drawn closer to Hell and further away from the angel.

“Nooooo! Stay with me!”

Aziraphale threw himself on Crowley. He gripped his shoulders and shook him with all his strength.

“Breathe! Please! You have to breathe!”

It was no use. The body couldn’t restart itself at this temperature. As Crowley’s soul sunk deeper, so did Aziraphale’s hopes. 

He would lose Crowley. The demon would be trapped in Hell where he would never receive a new body again. It would be his second damnation.

Arms wrapped around the dying body.

“No! Don’t leave me! You can’t leave me! I need you!”

Aziraphale clung to him, but in another plane he could feel pristine wings stretching wide. His voice began to shift from one made from vocal chords to a chorus made from divine will.

“Please, God, no! No, no, no, no, no, no…”

The physical world slipped away. Every part of Aziraphale’s essence was light, angelic spirit and God’s love. Wings snapped back. The angel dove downwards, chasing the smell of hellfire, sulfer and baked apples.

“Don’t leave me! I can’t… I can’t live without you! I can’t!”

A coil of darkness twisted and thrashed. The stench of hell wrapped around him, dragged him down into the abyss. A halo of light encircled the form. It held tightly, but the grip was slippery. The light slid off the darkness as the opposite natures resisted each other.

Bands and bands of light cusped around the serpent all along his essence. The soul no longer descended, but neither could Aziraphale lift the spirit back home.

“I don’t want to lose you! I love you! I love you so much, please! Come back to me!”

The anguish in the angel’s song made the demon writhe. Scales latched around the holy light. As Aziraphale continued to pull, the serpent slithered up, around and through the angel’s being. He climbed until his entire being was coiled around Aziraphale.

Hell’s grasp dissolved as the light burned all its bonds. A pair of slitted, gold eyes looked into a multitude of sky blue.

Wings expanded and beat rapidly. They rose, escaping the brimstone into a layer of ozone. Light and darkness hit the plane of the physical world and broke through together.

Aziraphale felt like a bookshelf had fallen on top of him. He gasped as his heart restarted and the physical sensations overcame his spiritual senses. It took a moment to register, yes, he had two arms, two legs, a body and head with a distinct shape and limit. His wings didn’t fit but were tucked safely away where he could feel them. 

There was a second gasp. Underneath him, Crowley was coughing and gulping air.

“Crowley! Oh God, Crowley!”

Aziraphale embraced him without a single thought.

Crowley was still warm. His heart was beating, lungs moving, and he was alive! Strong arms began to shake as sobs racked Azriaphale’s body. 

There were so many emotions tumbling in his chest he couldn’t make sense of it all. As tears soaked Crowley even further, all the angel could do was whimper, “Crowley… Crowley…”

The gasps evened out. Crowley’s breathing was strained but became smooth and slow. There was no other movement but the rising chest and beating heart. Aziraphale would let him rest. The demon could sleep as long as he liked if it kept him here on Earth.

He didn’t expect to hear his friend say weakly into his ear, “I’m here… M’here…”

With a hiccup and a loud sob, Aziraphale buried himself into Crowley’s chest. Those two words were enough to heal a pain that had been consuming him for days. He was so overcome with relief and gratitude, his body felt heavy with it.

As his breathing regained most of its composure, he lifted himself up. It wasn’t a surprise to find Crowley had fallen asleep underneath him. He wasn’t even bothered by it. With a wobbly, wet grin. Aziraphale cupped his hands against those flushed cheeks.

“I know you are… I know.”

* * *

The metal knobs squeeked as Aziraphale turned on the water faucet. The sound of rushing water filled the bathroom as the bathtub was filled.

His plan was simple. Crowley was cold-blooded. If he wanted to control the temperature of his body, he needed to only control the temperature of the environment, at least in theory. While he can regulate the temperature of the bookshop, he will have faster results using water.

And time was of the essence. In just the short time Crowley had returned to this world, his body was beginning to heat up once more. And Aziraphale would not have Crowley nearly discorporating on his watch again.

The large tub wasn’t even half full yet when a scream cut through the air. 

Aziraphale dashed to the door, only stopping to give the bathtub a stern glare. “I trust you know how to do the rest.” And so the tub did, twisting its own knobs expertly to create the perfect bath.

Back in the bedroom, Crowley was in a hysterical state. His body was violently twisting itself about, getting the one sheet underneath tangled around him. His wailing was sharp as though he were in pain. Tears leaked through the cracks of his tightly clenched eyes. 

Aziraphale hovered over him, wanting to ease his pain but unsure where to start—what the right course of action was. Despite Crowley’s frantic squirming, Aziraphale chanced a hand to his sweat dampened forehead.

At the touch, Crowley recoiled. A hiss crumbled into a chest-wrenching sob.

The one second of touch was enough. As Aziraphale had suspected, his fever was returning. He turned to the side table where a much needed basin of cool water had obligingly come into existence for him. He used the dampened cloth to soothe the burning flush darkening his burning skin.

“Shhh, it’s alright. I’ve got you.” Aziraphale spoke softly, not letting his worry bleed into his voice. Crowley continued to whimper as Aziraphale spread water over his neck, collarbones, shoulders.

He knew the water would turn warm with the heat of Crowley’s fever. With a roll of his shoulders, the light above cast the shadow of wings over Crowley’s form. Aziraphale gently beat his wings, creating a breeze to cool his damp skin.

Crowley’s back arched. “It hurts!”

“Where does it hurt?”

“Inside,” his voice cracking from his hoarse thoat.

“Inside?” Aziraphale cupped his face, letting his thumb slowly stroke his cheek.

“I’m… I’m empty. I’m so empty!”

A howl escaped Crowley’s chest as he dissolved once more into cries of pain. Aziraphale’s brows knitted. He didn’t know what that meant. What sort of symptom was emptiness? But it was clearly evident this feeling was bringing Crowley much anguish.

“What’s hurting you, dear?” It wouldn’t stay at bay, the worry in his heart. Perhaps he was doing this all wrong.

“Is it me? Is this too much?”

Aziraphale couldn’t stand the thought of making this worse for Crowley. He drew away, but his wrist was instantly caught, pulled back to that flushed face. 

Gold eyes looked up to him, no whites visible. But those eyes no longer looked pained, they looked… awed. Even as confused as he was, Aziraphale’s heart fluttered at such raw emotion.

He could never lose such a beautiful creature.

“Please,” Aziraphale begged, “tell me what you need.”

A whimper. “Take me back. Take me back, please! I don’t want this...”

Fingernails scratched at Aziraphale’s forearms, but he didn’t pull away, would never pull away. “Take you back, where?”

“To her…” Crowley’s scratchy voice whispered.

 _To who?_ , Aziraphale thought trying to decipher Crowley’s fever addled muttering. Then it hit him. Oh, not her, but Her. 

Before Aziraphale was a war, the oldest war in creation. When he first saw the falling streaks of fire, he didn’t understand why the stars were falling from the sky. Then he realized the whistling he heard wasn’t the sound of falling stars. All around him was screaming and the sky was filled with angels on fire.

Aziraphale never did tell Crowley why he couldn’t see the beauty in meteor showers the way Crowley did. The demon didn’t know what the fall looked like from Heaven.

Even as he could remember that time in deep clarity, he knew it all happened long ago. He could look around and see the home he had made for himself on Earth. 

But for Crowley, he wasn’t here. Instead, Crowley was burning, trapped in the memory of his own fall. It was so clear to Aziraphale, as any angel could recognize a cry to God for what it was. Aziraphale wouldn’t let him fall again. He would bring him back, break through the nightmare ensnaring his friend.

A sharp cry cut through the air and into Aziraphale’s heart. “She doesn’t love me!” Crowley writhed, chest lifting off the bed, hands tugging at the hair until the strands snapped free. “Why?! Why don’t You love me, Lord?! I- I… I need- I… I just want- want You to love me, please…”

Another sob came not from Crowley but from Aziraphale as he fought to keep Crowley from hurting himself. The weight of such agonizing heartbreak was too much for the angel. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be witness to such a vulnerable and intimate memory. Crowley never shared his experience of the fall outside of his little quips. In the midst of Crowley’s mournful cries, Aziraphale wasn’t sure he could bear knowing the extent of Crowley’s trauma.

With a show of strength, Aziraphale managed to pin Crowley’s arms to his sides with his knees. He returned his hands to Crowley, soothed the wrinkles of his forehead, wiped away the streaks of tears.

“Listen to me, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. He pressed on with unwavering determination even as Crowley gasped for air. “You are not Falling. You are safe. You are loved. You are so loved, my dear.”

His cry pettered out into a whimper. He leaned into Aziraphale’s touch. With what bravery he could summon, he willed the love in his heart to flow freely into his words.

“I can’t say I know for sure. And I know you will likely disagree. But I do believe She loves you. I do, truly. I cannot possibly imagine God not loving you as much as I do.”

Aziraphale’s heart ached at the stunned expression on Crowley’s face. It didn’t feel right for Crowley to not know how loved he was. Even if Aziraphale no longer sided with Heaven, he never stopped believing in Her love. He couldn’t imagine not having that. But for Crowley to believe She didn’t… Aziraphale would not have it. Crowley was deserving of all the love in the universe. Whether God truly loved Crowley or not, Aziraphale would make certain Crowley felt like the most loved creature in existance.

As Aziraphale rubbed soothing circles over Crowley’s temples, Crowley stared back at him unblinking. Finally, in a quiet voice he said, “This isn’t real.”

Aziraphale jumped at the certainty he heard in those words. “That’s right! It’s just a dream, my dear.”

Crowley’s body slumped, all his muscles loosened. His eyes fluttered, eventually drooping closed. “None of this is real…” he muttered, the last word barely a whisper.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale tapped his cheek, but he was gone. Aziraphale didn’t delay. Strong arms lifted the limp body easily from the bed, carrying him to the bathroom.

“I won’t lose you again,” Aziraphale said as steady feet marched across the tile floor. “I won’t let some silly illness tear us apart. Not after we fought so hard to have this.”

He lowered Crowley into the water, his body suddenly dressed in the same undergarments he once wore in Hell. Unlike the bath that was meant to destroy Crowley, Aziraphale made certain this one would only bring healing.

With a small rag, Aziraphale continued to towel Crowley’s fevered face as his other hand stayed in the water, using his grace to gradually lower the temperature. 

The bath did the trick, much to Aziraphale’s relief. Crowley’s body relaxed into the water. The horrible red hue of his skin faded away into an even complexion. Each breath grew stronger until it settled into a deep, even pace. Aziraphale took it all in, gladdened to see Crowley looking healthier than he had in days.

A yellow eye cracked open. For a moment, it stared at the water’s surface before looking up. Eventually, it was fixed on Aziraphale. He smiled.

“Comfortable?”

Crowley didn’t respond. He looked at Aziraphale for a little longer before drifting back to sleep.

Aziraphale allowed him to rest, knowing the danger was behind them. But he wouldn’t make the same mistakes again. He once again lifted Crowley from the bath, not allowing the water to make him too cold. With a blink, he was dry and dressed. Aziraphale held him close, feeling protective over the precious being in his arms, as they returned to the bedroom.

He didn’t notice at first, as busy as he was with making sure Crowley had the right amount of blankets and the room was warm but not too warm. It took him by surprise to see Crowley sitting up against the headboard watching him.

He looked more alert and aware than he ever had since this horrible illness first took him. His eyes no longer had that out of focus stare but fixated directly on the angel.

Aziraphale straightened his waistcoat. “How are you feeling?”

“... like shit.”

Aziraphale gave a small smile. He was suddenly feeling nervous of all things. With a wave, the fireplace filled the room with heat (but not too much heat). He sank onto the edge of the bed by Crowley’s feet.

“I’m not surprised,” he said lightly, trying to bring some calm to the demon.

“You abandoned me.”

Aziraphale’s heart dropped. 

Yes, he knew they would have to talk about this. After so many days left to his own thoughts, he could not help but replay the last week leading up to armgegeddon over and over. As he searched for a clue for Crowley’s mysterious sickness, how could he not dwell on all the horrible things he had said to Crowley? Again and again he chose Heaven over Crowley, yet, even as Heaven abandoned him, Crowley was always there. And how did Aziraphale repay him?

_There isn’t an ‘our side’, Crowley. Not any more. It’s over._

“I suppose I did,” Aziraphale said.

“There’s no ‘suppose’. There’s nothing to ‘suppose’. It’s what you did. As simple as that.” Crowley’s voice dripped with venom, and Aziraphale deserved it. He deserved every bit of it. He knew that, but he was so, so tired.

“Are we really going to talk about this now?”

“No better time than the present.”

Aziraphale sighed. There was no putting this off.

“I trusted you, you know,” Crowley continued. “Even when everything was going wrong, I had _faith_ in you. That we could work it out somehow. And look where that faith got me.”

“I know.” Aziraphale felt as though the weight of his quilt was weighing on his shoulders. His back was hunched forward, hands rubbing his temples. And he couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t bear to see the pain Aziraphale had caused in those eyes. “I know I hurt you. But you must understand that I thought I-”

“I don’t care what you thought. I really don’t.”

A long silence stretched out between them. This was bad. Crowley had never spoken to him with such vehemence before. Even in their worst fights, Crowley had some amount of patience for him. Aziraphale hadn’t realized a day would come when that patience had run out.

His health was perfectly fine, but Aziraphale felt like he was bleeding. The truth in his words was agony. He would take it, take all the pain, if it meant easing the wounds Aziraphale inflected on Crowley’s heart.

Aziraphale could no longer stand the silence. “What now then?”

“Like I know.”

“Well, I’m here now, as you can see,” he said, giving a timid wave to show he hadn’t abandoned him. “I don’t plan on leaving you like I did before. I’ll be here as long as you’ll have me.”

“Why?” Aziraphale flinched at the ire in Crowley’s voice. “What, because you _love_ me like you love everything?! Like how you loved the Earth so much you would let it be destroyed for heaven’s sake?!”

Aziraphale’s lip wobbled. It hurt. It hurt so much, but he was right. He almost screwed it all up and he deserved this. Yet panic was overtaking him. Fear whispered in his ear that Crowley hated him now, and how could he live with that? He couldn’t lose Crowley, not again.

“It wasn’t destroyed in the end, now was it?” Aziraphale tried to smile even as he felt like he was begging. Please don’t leave me. “And I do love you, you know. Even back then, I never stopped loving you.”

It was so easy to say now. How many times has he confessed his love to Crowley in the moments when he feared he would never have another chance? But his fear of Crowley knowing his feelings was nothing to the fear of losing Crowley’s trust.

“No, no, no, don’t. Just- just stop. I don’t…”

Crowley curled into himself, burying his face in his knees. He couldn’t even look at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale could feel it ripping now. A reality of them sharing the future they had fought for shattered in his mind. There was no hope was there? He would drown in the heartbreak. Wallow in his loneliness for eternity. A demon like Crowley would never love him. What was there to love? After all his lies and betrayal, there was nothing left worth loving.

“I-” Crowley swallowed, then took a long breath. “I loved you. It bloody hurt to love you so much. Even now… I still love you. As much as I try to hide it, I do… For so long, all I wanted was for you to love me. But I- I can’t. I just can’t do this. Not anymore. I’m done. I need to move on. Live my life.”

No, no, not like this! He had longed to hear Crowley say he loved him, despite how impossible it was. A demon couldn’t love, and yet…

And yet it was much easier to believe a demon could love—that Crowley loved him—when that same love was then stripped away in the same moment. It was so much worse than Crowley hating him. Aziraphale’s vision blurred, but he wouldn’t let his tears fall. He couldn’t lose him. Please don’t abandon me, even if I deserve it!

“Does it have to be? I can show you how much I love you? I’ll prove to you-”

“No. I don’t want your love. It’s too late.”

_I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go._

_You go too fast for me, Crowley._

Crowley’s eyes drifted closed. With a sigh, he sunk into the pillows sleeping once more.

Aziraphale stared at him, his mind filled with static. He stumbled out of the room, his body stiff and detached. He watched as his body carried him down the stairs. His foot kicked a book laying open in his path. He didn’t care.

He reached the backroom and suddenly all his strength left him. His knees gave out. He fell to the floor.

In a bookshop, curled on the floor surrounded by discarded books rumpled and damaged from their fall, an angel wailed a cry of despair.

* * *

  


##### Annotations:

1\. I was curious how this would sound so I made my own audio edit. Boy, this sounds so much creepier than I anticipated! You can listen for yourself [here.](https://sirenfeather.tumblr.com/post/633100706869575680/this-is-a-music-edit-based-on-a-scene-from-my-good) Back

2\. There was a trend in Victorian times that was called "Crazy Quilts" and they aptly fit the name. Crowley's "absolutely not-favourite" quilt would look [something like this](https://www.allpeoplequilt.com/quilt-patterns/history-of-the-crazy-quilt) Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i told myself i would make this chapter shorter than the first one, but this is fanfiction and there are no rules lol things may have left off on a sad note, but the final chapter will be loaded with comfort to ease your troubled hearts, and I’m really excited for their “actual” love confessions. the idea i have is something that i haven’t seen in other fics i’ve read and i think it will be very moving
> 
> below are some of the overlaps between chap 1 & 2 for those who are curious. these are not nearly all of them (many are pretty obvious), but the more subtle ones i’ll point out here 
> 
> i can’t wait to share with you the conclusion of this story—it’s gonna be a heck of a ride!
> 
> **~*~*~*~* Chapters 1 & 2 Comparisons *~*~*~*~**
> 
> Ritz scene: “Are you alright, dear?”/“Mmm… yeah.” This exchange wasn't in Crowley's chapter. Crowley was already drifting into a daze and didn’t remember yawning or saying anything.
> 
> Piano music at the Ritz: Crowley can hear the piano in the background and notes how it's strange music to hear in a bar.
> 
> Outside the Ritz: Aziraphale describes the outdoor air as a "hot, summer wind", but Crowley feels it as a "cold breeze" in his dream.
> 
> Car horn: At the sound of London traffic, Crowley thinks he's honking the horn of his Bentley. This makes his mind jump to the first time Aziraphale rode in his car. Many of his dreams are triggered by the things he is hearing and feeling in the real world.
> 
> Burning feet: Crowley believes his legs feel numb and weightless because of the burns on his feet from the church. In reality, Aziraphale is still carrying him, so he’s experiencing the disconnect of not standing in reality but standing in his dream.
> 
> Uber ride: In reality, Aziraphale is maneuvering and touching Crowley. In Crowley’s dream, Aziraphale is doing these actions to his bag of books instead. There is a recurring theme of Crowley projecting their touches as happening to other objects (the denial is strong in this one)
> 
> Queen: In his dream, Crowley hears the first words to "Old-fashioned Lover Boy" before turning the radio off. In reality, the song "Time" plays instead.
> 
> Digital clock: In the song "Old-fashioned Lover Boy", there is a line that goes "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 o’clock." The clock in reality is ascending in the same manner.
> 
> Human OCs: Just want to point out I'm stupidly proud of how I named the humans in this chapter.
> 
> Aziraphale’s tea: The chiming of Aziraphale's spoon stirring his tea sounds like a bell to Crowley. It takes him to the memory of when Aziraphale first installed a bell for the bookshop entrance.
> 
> Petnames: When Aziraphale first discovers Crowley is cold, in the dream Aziraphale says "My Lord". In reality, he says "My dear". Crowley has a tendency to either replace "my dear" with something else or drop it entirely.
> 
> First near-death experience: When Aziraphale hugs Crowley after restarting her heart, Crowley thinks the hug is ropes wrapped around her.
> 
> Aziraphale’s dream: There is a line Aziraphale says in Crowley’s dream that, in Aziraphale’s dream, Crowley says instead.
> 
> The water clock dream: Time in Crowley's dreams is a bit wonky. This is most evident when a single dream that is only a few minutes to Crowley is seven days for Aziraphale.
> 
> Fallen books: When Aziraphale starts throwing the books, Crowley hears the thumping and sees it as the water clock in his dream knocking against the side of the bowl.
> 
> A beating heart: Aziraphale thinks his heart is loud enough for Crowley to hear. This is true, but in Crowley's dream it oddly manifests as his sandals walking across sticky, hot tarmac.
> 
> Equal love: “You know I love you, don’t you? I’m about to lose my mind, I love you so much.” Aziraphale is the one to say this line in reality, but Crowley hears this and thinks he’s the one saying it about Aziraphale in his dream.
> 
> Cain or Hastur?: Breaking back into the physical world really hits hard and Crowley has a very dream-like experience of this. Because his dream is in the time Abel was killed, he imagines Cain has attacked him. But he pictures Cain with a crowbar and wearing the same flower dress Hastur wore when he captured Aziraphale in the TV show.
> 
> Same words, different meaning: In the final scene, Crowley dreams he is saying, "Like how you loved the Earth so much you would let it be destroyed, for heaven’s sake?!” Aziraphale instead hears "Like how you loved the Earth so much you would let it be destroyed for heaven’s sake?!” Commas are important.
> 
> No longer loved: “Crowley/Aziraphale could feel it ripping now.” Aziraphale’s description of his heartbreak over Crowley is nearly identical to Crowley’s realization that God doesn’t love him during his dream of the Fall.
> 
> Comments are always appreciated <3


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